5fr 


x    THE  E3DDK     x 

AND  XN 

f   MAGAZINE  SHOP 

•  UT»FPRJNT  AN©  SACK  NUMBERS    " 

M/UM  STS.  WA«ARA  TALLS,  N.  Y. 


••  \\V  \v.  !•••  -.».n  safrly  hi'i'lrn  amontr  tin-  tall  biislu-s.  and  wild 
vim--;,  wliii-h  covrnil  tin-  top  of  the  rock,  but  not  too  soon,  for  we 
were  hanlly  s«-ttled  before  tin-  hca«l  <if  the  juxx-fs^ion  ap|x-anil  in 


TKI:  <  iir.v.u.ii.irs  DATCIITER. 


THE 


CHEVALIER'S  DAUGHTER 


BEING  ONE  OF  THE 


STANTON  CORBET  CHRONICLES 


BY 
LUCY  ELLEN  GUERNSEY 

AUTHOR   OF     "LADY   BETTY'S  GOVERNESS,"    "  LADY    ROSAMOND'S  BOOK,"    "WINI- 
FRED"  "THE  LANGHAM  REVELS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK  : 
THOMAS 

2  AND  3  BIBLE  HOUSE 


Copyright.  1880, 
Bv  THOMAS  WHITTAKBH. 


DEDICATION. 

/  began  this  book  with  tlie  intention  of  inscribing  it  to  my 
own  and  my  mother's  tried  and  faithful  friend,  AARON  ERICSON 
JSsq.  /  runt  dedicate  it  to  his  revered  memory. 

LUCY  ELLEN  GUERNSEY. 


2061850 


CO:N 


CHAPTER  I. 

TAGB 

Early  Recollections,  .        . 9 

CHAPTER  II. 
The  Tour  D'Antin, 28 

CHAPTER  III. 
Youthful  Days, 48 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Trust  and  Distrust 63 

CHAPTER  V. 
Guests  at  the  Tour 89 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Lonely  Grange, .        .    107 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  Sudden  Summons, 127 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Flight, 145 

CHAPTER  IX. 
In  Jersey, 168 

CHAPTER  X. 
To  England, 189 

CHAPTER  XL 
Tre  Madoc,  212 


vi  CONTEXTS. 

CHAPTEH  XII. 

PAGE 

Mischief, ...    230 

CHAPTKU  XIII. 
The  Book,  .  .        .    259 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  Wedding,  281 


CHAPTER  XV. 
Stantoun  Court,  ....    819 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
London S44 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
My  New  Friends,      .        .  •    363 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
A  Great  Step 370 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Another  Change,         ....  •    39? 

CHAPTER  XX. 
"You  shall  have  no  Choice,"  .        .  •    414 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
The  Convent, .432 

CHAPTER  XXIL 
The  Voyage .440 

CHAPTER  XXIIL 
Conclusion, -    460 


N  OTE 


HESE  memoirs  were  written  by  my  re- 
spected grandmother  when  she  was  quite 
an  old  lady.  I  well  remember  as  a  child 
seeing  her  writing  upon  them,  my  grand- 
father sitting  near,  and  she  now  and  then  suspend- 
ing her  pen  to  talk  over  some  incident  with  him. 
Matters  have  not  improved  in  France  since  her 
time,  but  'tis  said  that  the  young  dauphin  is  quite  a 
different  man  from  his  father,  and  if  he  ever  comes 
to  the  throne  an  effort  will  be  made  in  behalf  of 
toleration  for  the  persecuted  Protestants.  I  hope 
so,  I  am  sure.  But  to  return  to  the  memoir. 

After  my  grandparents'  deaths,  which  took  place 
within  a  week  of  each  other,  the  papers  were  mis- 
laid, and  I  only  found  them  by  accident  in  an  inner 
cupboard  of  a  curious  old  carved  cabinet  (I  suspect 
the  very  one  described  in  these  pages),  which  my 
younger  brother  tooj?:  a_  fancy  to  repair.  I  have 


cS 


Note. 


amused  the  leisure  afforded  me  by  a  tedious 
sprained  ankle  in  arranging  and  transcribing  these 
papers,  which  seem  to  me  both  interesting  and 

profitable. 

ROSAMOND  GENEVIEVE  CORBET. 

Tre  Madoc  Court,  May  1st,  1740. 


VEVETTE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EARLY    RECOLLECTIONS. 

WAS  born  in  the  year  of  grace  1660,  at 
the  Tour  D'Antin,  a  chateau'not  very  far 
from  the  little  village  of  Sartilly  in  Nor- 
mandy. My  father  was  the  Chevalier 
D'Antin,  a  younger  son  of  the  Provencal  family  of 
De  Fayrolles.  My  mother  was  an  English  lady, 
daughter  of  a  very  ancient  Devonshire  family.  Her 
name  was  Margaret  Corbet,  and  the  branch  of  that 
tribe  to  which  she  belonged  had  settled  in  Cornwall. 
I  remember  her  as  a  very  beautiful  woman,  with 
crispy  waved  blonde  hair  and  a  clear  white  skin  more 
like  alabaster  than  marble,  and  no  tinge  of  color  in 
her  cheeks.  I  never  saw  any  other  person  so  pale 
as  she,  though  her  lips  were  always  red.  She  had 
beautiful  gray  eyes,  with  long  black  lashes,  and 
clearly  defined  arched  eyebrows  meeting  above  her 
nose,  which  gave  a  very  serious  and  even  solemn 
expression  to  her  face.  This  expression  accordea 


io  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

well  with  her  character,  which  was  grave  and 
thoughtful  and  very  deeply  religious.  I  never  saw 
any  person  whose  faith  was  so  much  like  sight  as 
hers.  Nevertheless,  she  could  smile  very  sweetly, 
and  even  laugh  merrily  at  times,  but  not  very 
often.  For  a  shadow  hung  over  our  house  from  my 
earliest  years — the  same  shadow  which  darkened  so 
many  other  French  families  at  that  time. 

My  father  was  a  pleasant,  lively,  kind-hearted 
gentleman,  who  worshipped  his  beautiful  wife,  and 
treated  her  as  if  she  were  indeed  some  fragile  statue 
of  alabaster  which  might  be  broken  by  rough  usage. 

He  was.  as  I  have  said,  a  younger  son.  H?a 
elder  brother  lived  far  away  in  Provence — at  least 
his  grand  chateau  was  there  ;  but  he  and  his  wife 
spent  most  of  their  time  at  court,  where  they  both 
held  offices  about  the  king  and  queen.  By  some 
family  arrangement  which  I  never  understood,  our 
own  Tour  d'Antin  came  to  my  father,  thus  putting 
him  in  a  much  more  comfortable  position  than  that 
of  most  younger  brothers,  as  there  was  a  large  and 
productive  domain  and  certain  houses  at  Granville 
which  brought  good  rents.  Besides,  there  were 
dues  of  fowls  and  so  forth  from  the  tenants  and 
small  farmers.  Indeed,  my  father,  with  his  simple 
country  tastes,  was  far  richer  than  his  elder  brother, 
and  that  though  my  father's  purse  was  always  open 
to  the  poor,  especially  those  of  our  own  household 
of  faith. 

The  Tour  d'Antin  was  a  large  building  of  red- 
dish stone,  partly  fortress,  partly  chateau.  I  sus- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  1 1 

pect  it  had  some  time  been  a  convent  also,  for 
there  was  a  paved  court  surrounded  by  a  cloister, 
and  a  small  Gothic  chapel  which  was  a  good  deal  di- 
lapidated, and  never  used  in  my  time.  The  fortress 
part  of  the  house  was  very  old.  It  consisted  of  a 
square  and  a  round  tower,  connected  by  a  kind  of 
gallery.  The  walls  were  immensely  thick,  and  so 
covered  with  lichens  and  wall  plants  that  one  could 
hardly  tell  what  they  were  made  of.  In  the  square 
tower  my  mother  had  her  own  private  apartment, 
consisting  of  a  parlor  and  an  anteroom,  and  an 
oratory,  or  closet,  as  we  should  call  it  in  England, 
the  last  being  formed  partly  in  the  thickness  of  the 
wall,  partly  by  a  projecting  turret.  It  seemed  an 
odd  choice,  as  the  new  part  of  the  house  was  so 
light  and  cheerful,  but  there  was  a  reason  for  this 
choice  which  I  came  to  understand  afterward.  The 
rooms  communicated  by  a  gallery  with  the  newer 
part  of  the  house,  where  was  a  saloon,  my  father's 
special  study  and  business  room,  and  various  lodging 
rooms.  This  same  gallery,  as  I  have  said,  led  to 
the  oldest  part  of  the  chateau — the  round  tower, 
which  was  somewhat  ruinous,  and  where  nobody 
lived  but  the  bats  and  owls,  and,  if  the  servants 
were  to  be  credited,  the  ghosts  of  a  certain  cheva- 
lier and  his  unhappy  wife,  about  whom  there  was  a 
terribly  tragical  legend.  There  was  a  steep  stone 
staircase  leading  to  the  top  of  the  round  tower,  from 
whence  one  could  see  a  very  little  bit  of  the  sea  and 
the  great  monastery  and  fortress  of  St.  Michael. 
There  was  no  view  of  the  sea  from  any  other  part 


1 2  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

of  the  house,  which  lay  in  a  sort  of  dell  or  depres- 
sion quite  sheltered  from  the  winds,  but  from  the 
hill  behind  us  one  could  see  the  whole  extent  of  the 
sands  which  lay  between  Grauville  and  the  Mont  St. 
Michel,  and  the  mount  itself,  a  glorious  vision  in  a 
clear  bright  day,  and  a  gloomy  sight  when  it  low- 
ered huge  and  dark  through  the  mists  of  Novem- 
ber. We  young  ones  used  to  look  at  it  with  sensa- 
tions of  awe,  for  we  knew  that  inside  those  high 
frowning  walls,  shut  deep  from  light  and  air,  were 
horrible  dungeons,  in  which  some  of  "  the  Beligion" 
had  perished  in  lingering  misery,  and  others  might, 
for  all  we  knew,  be  pining  there  still.  Formerly, 
we  were  told,  the  pinnacle  of  the  fortress  was 
crowned  by  a  mighty  gilded  angel,  an  image  of  the 
patron  saint  of  the  place,  but  it  did  not  exist  in  my 
day.  The  wide  expanse  of  sand  of  which  I  have 
spoken  was  and  is  called  the  Greve,  and  was  no  less 
an  object  of  terror  to  us  than  the  fortress  itself.  It 
is  a  dreary  and  desolate  plain,  abounding  in  shifting 
and  fathomless  quicksands,  which  stretch  on  every 
hand  and  often  change  their  places,  so  that  the 
most  experienced  guide  cannot  be  sure  of  safety. 
Not  a  year  passes  without  many  victims  being  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  Greve,  and  these  accidents  are 
especially  frequent  about  the  time  of  the  feast  of 
St.  Michael,  on  the  29th  of  September,  when  crowds 
of  pilgrims  flock  to  the  mount  from  all  over  France. 
On  the  eve  of  All  Souls'  Day— -that  is,  on  the  2d  of 
November — as  all  good  Catholics  in  La  Manche  be- 
lieve, there  rises  from  the  sands  a  thick  mist,  and 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  13 

this  mist  is  made  up  of  the  souls  of  those  unfortu- 
nates—  pilgrims,  fishermen,  and  smugglers — who 
have  from  time  to  time  found  a  horrible  and  living 
grave  in  its  treacherous  depths,  and  who,  having 
died  without  the  sacraments,  are  in  at  least  a  ques- 
tionable position. 

To  the  south  and  south-east  of  the  Tour  d'Antin 
lay  wide  apple  orchards,  laden  with  fruit  in  good 
years,  and  seldom  failing  altogether  in  bad  ones. 
There  was  also  a  small  vineyard,  but  we  made  no 
wine,  for  Normandy  is  not  a  wine  country.  The 
very  children  in  arms  drink  cider  as  English  chil- 
dren drink  milk,  and  it  does  not  seem  to  hurt  them. 
"We  had  a  garden  for  herbs  and  vegetables  — mostly 
salads,  carrots,  and  various  kinds  of  pulse.  Pota- 
toes, which  are  growing  very  common  in  England 
now,  and  were  cultivated  to  some  extent  even  then, 
were  unknown  in  France  till  long  afterward,  and 
are  not  in  use  at  present  except  as  a  rare  luxury. 
My  mother  had  a  flower-garden — very  small,  and 
carefully  tended  by  her  own  hands.  At  the  end  of 
our  garden  stood  a  small  unpretending  stone  build- 
ing, not  the  least  like  a  church,  which  was  never- 
theless the  only  place  of  worship  of  the  Protestants 
for  some  miles  around.  For  the  domain  D'Antin 
was  a  kind  of  Protestant  colony  in  the  midst  of 
Catholics.  All  our  own  tenants  were  of  ' '  the  Re- 
ligion," and  there  were  a  few  of  the  same  way  of 
thinking,  both  in  Granville  and  Sartilly,  who  came 
to  the  "  Temple,"  as  it  was  called,  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  we  had  a  visit  from  a  pastor.  On  such 


14  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

occasions  we  had  sometimes  as  many  as  fifty  wor- 
shippers. When  I  recall  the  aspect  of  that  little 
congregation,  with  their  solemn  earnest  faces,  their 
blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  preacher,  the  old  men  and 
women  with  their  heads  bent  forward  not  to  lose  a 
word,  the  very  children  in  arms  hushed  and  silent, 
and  then  look  round  on  our  English  congregation, 
with  half  the  men  asleep,  the  old  clerk  nodding 
in  his  desk,  or  droning  out  the  Amens,  as  my 
naughty  Walter  says,  like  a  dumbledore  under  a 
hat — when  I  contrast  the  two  I  sometimes  wonder 
whether  a  little  persecution  would  not  be  good  for 
the  church  on  this  side  of  the  water.  It  seems  a 
poor  way  of  praising  the  Lord  for  all  his  benefits  to 
go  to  sleep  over  them. 

As  I  have  said,  the  domain  D'Antin  was  a  kind 
of  Protestant  colony  in  the  midst  of  Roman  Catho- 
lics— only  we  did  not  use  the  word  Protestant  at 
that  time.  We  were  among  ourselves  u  the  Re- 
formed," or  "  the  Religion  ;"  among  our  enemies 
the  "  Heretics,"  "  the  religion  pretended  to  be  re- 
formed," and  so  forth.  Our  family  had  belonged 
to  this  party  ever  since  there  had  been  any  "  Re- 
formed "  in  France,  and  even  before.  For  our 
ancestors  had  come  into  Provence  from  among  the 
Vaudois,  of  whom  it  was  and  is  the  boast  that  they 
had  never  accepted  the  Romish  corruptions  of  the 
true  Gospel,  and  therefore  needed  no  reformation. 
For  some  hundreds  of  years  after  their  emigration 
these  people  had  lived  in  peace  with  their  neighbors. 
They  had  found  Provence  a  wilderness,  all  but  aban- 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  15 

doned  to  the  wolves.  They  made  it  a  smiling 
garden.  Vineyards  and  olive  orchards,  fruit  and 
grain  sprung  up  where  they  trod.  They  were  con- 
sidered  as  odd  people,  eccentric,  perhaps  a  little  mad, 
who  would  not  swear  nor  drink  to  excess,  nor  sing 
indecent  songs,  nor  frequent  companies  where  such 
things  were  done  ;  but  then  they  were  quiet  and 
peaceable,  full  of  compassion  for  those  who  needed 
help,  paying  dues  to  State  and  Church  without  a 
murmur,  and  if  they  did  not  attend  mass  or  confes- 
sion, the  quiet  old  parish  cures  winked  with  both 
eyes,  for  the  most  part,  or  contented  themselves  with 
mild  admonitions  to  such  as  came  in  their  way. 

But  in  the  year  1540  all  this  was  changed,  and  a 
tempest  fell  on  the  peaceable  inhabitants  of  Pro- 
vence— a  tempest  as  unexpected  by  most  of  them  as 
a  thunderbolt  out  of  a  clear  sky.  The  preaching  of 
the  true  Gospel,  which  was  begun  about  the  year 
1521  by  Farel  and  Le  Fevre,  spread  like  wildfire 
all  over  the  kingdom.  Crowds  attended  everywhere 
on  the  ministrations  of  the  reformed  preachers,  and 
in  many  places  the  parish  priests  were  left  to  say 
mass  to  the  bare  walls.  It  seemed  at  first  as  if 
France  would  soon  break  away  from  Rome,  as  Ger- 
many had  done.  But  the  fair  dawn  was  soon  over- 
clouded. Persecution  arose  because  of  the  word, 
and  many  were  offended  and  returned  to  their 
former  observances.  The  Yaudois  settlers  in  Pro- 
vence were  the  greatest  sufferers.  They  were  true 
to  the  faith  of  their  forefathers,  and  no  menaces 
could  shake  them.  Two  of  their  villages — ]\leri  ndol 


1 6  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

and  Cabrieres— were  burned  to  the  ground.  In  the 
former  only  one  person  was  left  alive- -a  poor  idiot 
who  had  given  to  a  soldier  two  crowns  for  a  ransom. 
The  commander  of  the  expedition,  D'Oppide,  gave 
the  soldier  two  crowns  from  his  own  purse,  and 
then  caused  the  poor  idiot  to  be  bound  to  a  tree  and 
shot.  The  men  of  Cabrieres  being  promised  their 
lives  and  the  lives  of  their  families,  laid  down  their 
arms,  and  were  cut  in  pieces  on  the  spot.  Women 
and  children  were  burned  in  their  houses,  others  fled 
to  the  mountains  and  woods  to  perish  of  want  and 
cold,  and  the  name  of  Vaudois  was  almost  extin- 
guished in  Provence.*  Almost,  but  not  altogether. 
A  hidden  seed  still  remained  among  the  poor  and 
lowly,  and  some  great  houses  still  openly  professed 
their  faith  and  protected  their  immediate  dependants. 
Among  these  was  the  family  to  which  my  grandfa- 
ther belonged.  Through  all  the  troubles  and  wars  of 
the  League— through  the  fearful  days  of  St.  Barthol- 
omew, when  France  ran  blood  from  one  end  to  the 
other — the  family  of  my  ancestors  kept  their  heads 
above  the  flood  without  ever  denying  their  faith. 
It  remained  for  my  uncle,  the  head  of  our  family, 
to  sully  our  noble  name  by  real  or  pretended  con- 
version, in  order  to  curry  court  favor  from  Louis 
XIV.  He  has  left  no  descendant  to  perpetuate  his 
shame.  That  branch  of  the  family  is  extinct,  the 
last  son  being  killed  in  a  disgraceful  duel. 

*  All  these  details  and  man}'  more  may  he  found  in  Felice's 
"  Histoires  des  Protestants  en  France,"  and  in  many  Catholic 
writers  as  welL 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  i  7 

It  was  before  this  disgrace  fell  upon  us  that  my 
father,  in  consequence  of  the  family  arrangement  I 
have  spoken  of,  took  possession  of  the  domain  in 
Normandy.  He  was  not  a  very  young  man  when, 
in  a  visit  he  made  to  Jersey,  he  met  and  married 
my  mother,  who  had  also  gone  thither  on  a  visit. 
We  could  see  the  island  of  Jersey  on  a  clear  day, 
like  a  blue  cloud  on  the  horizon,  and  used  to  look 
at  it  with  great  interest  as  a  part  of  England,  which 
we  pictured  to  ourselves  as  a  land  of  all  sorts  of 
marvels. 

From  the  time  of  the  execution  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes  in  1598  to  the  death  of  Henry  IY.,  those  of 
the  Religion  in  France  enjoyed  a  good  degree  of 
peace,  and  their  temples  (which  they  were  not 
allowed  even  then  to  call  churches)  multiplied  all 
over  the  land  ;  but  the  Bearnois,  as  the  people  loved 
to  call  him,  was  hardly  cold  in  his  grave  before  his 
successor  began  his  attempts  to  undo  what  his  great 
progenitor  had  done,  and  from  that  time  to  the  final 
revocation  of  our  great  charter  in  1685,  every  year 
— nay,  almost  every  month — brought  down  new 
persecutions,  new  edicts  on  the  heads  of  the  "  so- 
called  Reformed."  These  edicts  were  such  as 
touched  the  honor,  the  safety,  the  very  life  of  every 
Protestant.  I  shall  have  to  speak  very  largely  of 
these  edicts  as  I  proceed,  for  some  of  them  had  a 
direct  effect  on  my  own  destiny. 

I  have  given  a  description  of  the  Tour  d'Antin 
as  my  birthplace,  but  in  truth  my  earliest  recollec- 
tions are  of  a  very  different  dwelling.  For  a  long 


1 8  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

time  after  my  birth  my  mother  was  in  very  delicate 
health  and  quite  unable  to  nurse  me  herself,  so  I 
was  given  over  to  the  care  of  a  former  servant  of 
our  family  named  Jeanne  Sablot,   who  had  lately 
lost  a  young  infant.     Jeanne  took  me  home  to  he*r 
own  house,  and  I  only  saw  my  dear  mother  at  inter- 
vals of  a  month  or  two  till  I  was  ten  years   old. 
Jeanne  had  two  children  of  her  own,  David  and 
Lucille,  both  older  than  1,  and  my  sworn  friends 
and  protectors  on  all  occasions.     Jeanne's  parents 
hud  come  from   Provence,  and   she   was  like  an 
Italian,  both   in   looks    and  ways.     Her  husband, 
Simon  Sablot,  was  a  tall,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  Nor- 
man, somewhat  heavy  and  slow  both  in  mind  and 
\vays,  a  devout  Christian  man,  respected  even  by 
liis  Koman  Catholic  neighbors  for  his  just  dealings 
and  generous  hand.     But  indeed  we  all  lived  in 
peace   in   those  days.      Catholics  and  Protestants 
were  neighborly  together  in  the  exchange  of  good 
offices.     Even  the  old  cure  did  not  hesitate  to  ex- 
change a  kindly  greeting  with  one  of  his  heretical 
parishioners,  or  to  accept  a  seat  and  a  drink  of 
sparkling  cider  m  his  dwelling.     The  great  wave 
of  persecution  which  was  sweeping  over  France  had 
hardly  reached  our  obscure  harbor,  though  we  began 
to  hear  its  roar  at  a  distance. 

The  old  farm-house  in  which  my  foster-parents 
lived  was  roomy  enough  and  very  fairly  neat, 
though  the  walls  and  beams  were  black  as  ebony, 
and  varnished  with  the  smoke  of  wood  fires.  I  can 
see  at  this  moment  the  row  of  polished  brass  pans 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  19 

shining  like  gold  in  the  firelight,  the  tall  drinking- 
glasses  on  the  shelf,  the  oddly  carved  cabinet  with 
bright  steel  hinges,  which  Jeanne  called  a 
"  bahut,"  and  cherished  with  pride  because  it  had 
come  down  from  her  Vaudois  ancestors,  and  the 
round  brass  jar  used  for  milking,  and  into  whose 
narrow  neck  it  required  some  skill  to  direct  the 
stream  from  the  udder  aright.  I  can  see  my  foster- 
father  seated  in  his  great  chair  in  the  chimney 
corner,  and  my  good  nurse  baking  on  the  griddle 
cakes  of  sarrasin,  which  the  English  call  buck- 
wheat. These  cakes  were  very  good  when  they 
came  hot  and  crisp  from  the  griddle  ;  but  it  was 
•and  is  the  custom  to  bake  up  a  huge  pile  of  them, 
enough  sometimes  to  last  several  weeks,  and  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  toward  the  end  one  needed  to 
be  very  hungry  to  relish  them.  We  had  corn  bread 
also,  for  Simon  cultivated  one  of  the  best  of  the 
small  farms  into  which  the  domain  was  divided  ; 
but  we  ate  it  as  a  great  treat,  as  English  children 
eat  plum-cake.  We  lived  somewhat  more  luxuri- 
ously than  most  of  our  neighbors,  for  Jeanne  had 
been  cook  at  the  great  house  like  her  mother 
before  her.  and  Simon  was  wont  to  boast  that  his 
wife  could  dress  him  a  dish  of  eggs  in  as  many 
different  ways  as  there  are  days  in  a  month.  Still 
we  lived  very  plainly,  and  I  fared  like  the  rest.  I 
learned  to  read  from  Jeanne,  who  was  a  good 
scholar  and  spoke  very  pure  French,  and  she  also 
taught  me  to  sew,  to  spin,  and  to  knit,  for  the  Nor- 
man women  are  famous  knitters.  Besides  these 


2O  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

lessons,  which  were  my  tasks  and  strictly  exacted,  I 
learned  to  milk  and  clmrn,  to  make  hay  and  plant 
beans,  and,  in  short,  to  do  all  that  Lucille  did.  We 
all  had  our  daily  tasks  of  Scripture  to  learn  by 
heart,  according  to  the  admirable  custom  of  the 
French  reformers,  and  we  also  learned  and  sang 
Clement  Marot's  hymns  and  psalms.  I  have  still 
in  my  possession  an  old  French  Bible  with  these 
psalms  bound  in  the  same  volume.  The  index  is 
curious  :  certain  psalms  are  distinguished  as  "To 
be  sung  when  the  church  is  under  affliction  an  d  op- 
pression ;  when  one  is  prevented  from  the  exercise 
of  worship  ;  when  one  is  forced  to  the  combat ;  to 
be  sung  on  the  scaffold."  Such  are  some  of  its 
divisions — very  significant,  certainly.  On  Sundays 
we  learned"  the  Catechism,  and  the  "  Noble  Lesson'"' 
which  had  come  to  us  from  cur  Yaudois  ancestors, 
read  the  stories  in  the  Bible,  and  took  quiet  walks 
in  the  fields  and  lanes.  Our  Roman  Catholic  neigh- 
bors used  to  assemble  after  mass  on  the  village 
green  for  dancing  and  other  sports,  but  none  of  the 
Reformed  were  ever  seen  at  these  gatherings. 

Once,  when  David  was  about  fourteen,  he  ran 
away  from  home  and  went  to  Granville  to  see  the 
great  procession  on  the  feast  of  St.  Michael,  which 
fell  that  year  on  a  Sunday.  Lucille  did  not  know 
where  he  had  gone,  but  I  did,  for  he  had  told  me 
his  intention,  and  I  had  vainly  tried  to  dissuade 
him.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell,  but  I  was  forced  to 
do  so.  I  shall  never  forget  the  horror  of  his 
mother  nor  the  stern  anger  of  his  father. 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.  21 

"  The  boy  is  lost  to  us — lost  forever  !"  I  heard 
Jeanne  say  to  her  husband. 

"  No,  no,  ma  bonne  !"  answered  Simon  sooth- 
ingly ;  "  the  boy  has  done  wrong,  no  doubt,  but  he 
will  return — he  will  repent — all  will  be  well." 

' '  Ah,  you  do  not  know  !' '  returned  Jeanne  in  a 
shrill  accent  of  horror.  u  There  are  monks  at 
Granville — missionaries.  He  will  be  betrayed  into 
some  rash  act  of  worship — a  reverence  to  the  image 
— an  entry  into  the  church.  They  will  call  it  an 
act  of  catholicity — they  will  take  him  away — he 
will  never  return  to  us.  Or  if  he  should  refuse 
them,  they  will  accuse  him  of  blaspheming  the 
Yirgin  and  St.  Michael."  Jeanne  threw  herself 
down  in  her  seat  and  covered  her  eyes,  and  Simon's 
calm  face  was  clouded  with  grave  anxiety  ;  but  he 
spoke  in  the  same  reassuring  tone. 

"  Little  mother,  you  are  borrowing  trouble.  Is 
not  our  Lord  at  Granville  as  well  as  here,  and  can 
he  not  take  care  of  our  son  ?  I  trust  he  will  be  be- 
trayed into  no  rashness,  though  the  idle  curiosity  of 
a  child  has  taken  him  in  the  way  of  danger. ' ' 

"  But,  Father  Simon,  will  God  take  care  of 
David  now  that  he  has  been  a  naughty  boy  ?"  I 
ventured  to  ask. 

Simon  smiled. 

"  Ah,  my  little  one,  what  would  become  of  the 
best  of  us  if  God  did  not  take  better  care  of  us  than 
we  do  of  ourselves.  Nevertheless,  to  run  into  need- 
less danger  is  a  sin  of  presumption.  There  are  daii- 


22  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

gers  enough  hanging  over  our  heads,  let  us  be  as 
careful  as  we  may. ' ' 

I  had  lived,  so  to  speak,  in  an  atmosphere  of  dan- 
ger all  my  life,  but  I  think  I  now  realized  it  for  the 
first  time. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  an  act  of  catholicity  ?" 
\  asked.  "  Is  it  anything  wicked  ?" 

Simon  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other,  and  then 
my  foster-father  put  out  his  hand  and  drew  me  to 
his  side. 

"  Listen  to  me,  little  Vevette  !"  said  he,  laying 
his  hand  on  my  head  and  turning  my  face  toward 
his.  "It  is  hard  to  sadden  thy  young  life  with 
such  a  shadow,  but  it  is  needful.  Yes,  the  shadow 
of  the  cross,  which  God  hath  laid  on  his  church, 
falls  also  on  the  little  ones.  Attend,  my  child  ! 
Thou  must  never,  never,"  he  repeated,  with  some 
sternness  in  his  voice,  "  on  any  pretext,  or  on  any 
persuasion,  no  matter  from  whom  it  comes,  enter  a 
church  or  bow  thy  head  to  any  image,  or  kiss  any 
image  or  picture,  or  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  or 
sing  any  hymns  so  called,  or  canticle  to  the  Virgin 
or  the  saints.  If  thou  dost  any  such  thing  the 
priests  will  perhaps  come  and  take  thee  away  from 
thy  parents  to  shut  thee  up  in  a  convent,  where  thou 
wilt  never  more  see  one  of  thy  friends,  and  from 
which  thou  wilt  never  escape  with  life  except  by  re- 
nouncing thy  God  and  thy  religion  !" 

"  I  will  never  renounce  my  religion  !"  I  cried 
with  vehemence.  "  My  uncle  did  so,  and  my 
father  says  he  has  disgraced  his  ancient  name." 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  25 

"  Alas,  poor  man,  if  that  were  all  !"  said  Simon. 
"  But  now  wilt  thou  remember  these  things,  my 
child?" 

' '  I  will  try, ' '  said  I  humbly  ;  for  I  remembered 
that  only  yesterday  I  had  been  humming  the  air  of 
a  hymn  to  the  Virgin  which  had  struck  my  fancy. 
"  But  oh,  Father  Simon,  do  you  think  they  will 
take  David  away  and  shut  him  up  in  the  monastery 
yonder  ?" 

"  I  trust  not,"  said  Simon,  and  then  he  added, 
with  vehemence,  ' '  I  would  rather  he  were  sunk  be- 
fore my  eyes  in  the  deepest  sands  of  the  Greve. ' ' 

"  I  think  Vevette  is  as  bad  as  David,"  said 
Lucie,  who  had  not  before  spoken.  "  She  knew 
he  was  going,  and  she  did  not  prevent  him.  If  ./ 
had  knoAvn,  I  should  have  told  mother  directly. " 

"  Yes,  thou  art  only  too  ready  to  tell,"  reph'ed 
her  mother.  "  Take  care  that  no  one  has  to  tell  of 
thee." 

' '  And  remember  that  spiritual  pride  is  as  great 
a  sin  as  disobedience,  and  goes  before  a  fall  as  often, 
my  Loulou, "  added  her  father. 

"  I  did  not  know  what  to  do,"  said  I.  "  Mother 
Jeanne  does  not  like  to  have  us  tell  tales  ;"  which 
was  true. 

"  Thine  was  an  error  in  judgment,  my  little  one. 
I  am  not  angry  with  yon,  my  children.  Another 
time  you  will  both  be  wiser,  and  David  also  I  trust. 
Now  run  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  see  if  you  can 
see  him." 

We  went  out  together,  but  not  hand  in  hand  as 


24  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

usual.  A  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  but  we  were 
too  hardy  to  mind  that.  Our  sabots  or  wooden  shoes 
were  impervious  to  wet,  and  our  thick  homespun 
frocks  almost  as  much  so.  No  sooner  were  we  out 
of  hearing  of  the  elders  than  Loulou  overwhelmed 
me  with  a  torrent  of  reproaches  mingled  with  tears. 

;'  It  is  you — you,  Vevette,  who  have  sent  my 
brother  away,"  she  cried.  "  You  knew  he  was 
going,  and  you  did  not  try  to  stop  him." 

"That  is  not  true,"  said  I  calmly — I  was  as 
angry  as  herself,  but  it  was  always  a  way  of  mine 
that  the  more  excited  I  was  the  quieter  I  grew — 
"  I  said  everything  I  could." 

'  Yes,  you  said  everything ;  why  did  not  you 
do  something.  If  he  had  told  me — but  no  ! 
Everything  is  for  Yevette,  forsooth,  because  she  is 
a  demoiselle.  His  poor  sister  is  nothing  and  no- 
body. You  try  every  way  to  separate  him  from 
me,  and  make  him  despise  me.  I  wish — "  but  a 
burst  of  angry  sobs  choked  her  voice. 

'  Yes,  I  know  what  you  wish,  and  you  shall  have 
your  wish,"  said  I,  for  I  was  now  at  a  white  heat. 

Loulon  began  to  be  scared,  and,  as  usual,  as  I 
grew  angry  she  began  to  cool  down. 

'  Well,  I  think  you  ought  to  have  told,  but  to 
be  sure  you  are  only  a  little  girl,"  she  added  con- 
descendingly. "  As  father  says,  when  you  are 
older  you  will  know  better." 

This  put  the  climax.  Nobody  likes  to  be  called 
"  only  a  little  girl."  I  did  not  gay  a  word,  but  I 
turned  and  walked  away  from  her.  I  had  had  a 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  25 

glimpse  of  a  figure  coming  up  the  hollow  lane,  and 
I  was  determined  to  meet  David  before  his  sister 
did. 

"  Vevette,  where  are  you  going  ?"  called  Loulou. 
"  Come  back  ;  you  will  be  wet  through."  I  paid 
no  attention  to  her,  but,  quickening  my  steps,  I 
passed  a  turn  in  the  lane,  and  as  I  did  so  David 
caught  me  in  his  arms. 

"  Yevette  !  what  are  you  doing  here,  and  what 
makes  you  so  pale  ?  Is  your  heart  beating  again  ?" 
For  I  was  subject  to  palpitations  which,  though 
probably  not  dangerous,  were  alarming.  "  Here, 
sit  down  a  moment.  What  frightened  you  ?" 

"  You — you  did,"  I  gasped,  as  soon  as  I  could 
speak.  "  I  thought  they  would  carry  you  off — that 
we  should  never  see  you  again." 

' '  Was  that  all  ?  There  was  no  danger, "  said 
David,  with  an  odd  little  smile.  "  I  did  not  go 
near  them." 

"  Did  not  go  near  them  !"  repeated  Lucille, 
who  had  now  come  up  with  us.  "  "Why  not  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  it  right,"  answered  David 
manfully.  "  1  meant  to  go  when  I  set  out,  but 
Yevette's  words  kept  ringing  in  my  ears  :  '  It  is 
mean  and  cowardly  to  pain  thy  mother's  heart  just 
for  a  pleasure. '  So  1  turned  aside  and  went  to  sit 
a  while  with  Jean  Laroche,  who  is  laid  up  still  with 
his  sprained  ankle." 

"  Then  you  never  went  near  the  procession  at  all 
— you  never  saw  it,"  said  Lucille,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
appointment, as  David  shook  his  head.  "  1 


26  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 


<5 


thought  you  would  at  least  have  something  to  tell 
us.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  mademoiselle,  if  I 
may  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  ?" 

"At  you,  "I  answered  with  perfect  frankness. 
*'  At  first  you  are  enraged  enough  to  kill  me  because 
1  did  not  keep  David  from  going,  and  now  you  are 
vexed  at  him  because  he  did  not  go." 

"  But  you  did  keep  me,  and  I  should  have  come 
home  at  once,  only  the  poor  Mother  Laroche  asked 
me  so  earnestly  to  come  in  and  amuse  Jean  a  little. 
But  I  must  hurry  home.  Come,  girls." 

Lucille  and  I  did  not  go  into  the  house,  but  into 
the  granary,  which  was  one  of  our  places  of  retire- 
ment. I  took  up  an  old  psalm-book  and  began 
turning  over  the  leaves.  Lucille  stood  looking  out 
of  the  door.  At  last  she  spoke. 

"  So  you  did  hinder  him,  after  all  ?" 

"  Yes,  what  a  pity  !"  I  answered  mischievously. 
"  Else  he  might  have  something  to  tell  us.  But  I 
am  only  a  little  girl,  you  know.  When  1  am  older 
I  shall  know  better.  But  there,  we  won't  quarrel," 
I  added.  I  could  afford  to  be  magnanimous,  seeing 
how  decidedly  I  had  the  best  of  it.  "It  is  worse 
to  be  cross  on  Sunday  than  to  go  to  see  processions. 
Come,  let  us  kiss  and  be  friends." 

Lucille  yielded,  but  not  very  graciously.  In 
fact,  she  was  always  rather  jealous  of  me.  She 
eaid  I  set  her  father  and  mother  up  against  her, 
which  certainly  was  not  true,  and  that  David  liked 
me  the  best,  which  might  have  been  the  case,  for 
she  was  always  lecturing  him  and  assuming  airs  of 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  27 

superiority,  which  irritated  him,  good-tempered 
as  he  was.  I  do  not  think  she  was  very  sorry  when 
it  was  decided  that  I  should  leave  the  cottage  and 
go  home  for  good. 

I  have  dwelt  more  lengthily  on  this  childish 
affair  because  it  was  the  first  thing  which  made  me 
at  all  sensible  of  the  atmosphere  of  constant  danger 
and  persecution  in  which  we  lived  even  then. 


CHAPTER  n. 
THE  TODB   D'ANTIN. 


HE  very  next  day  I  was  sent  for  to  go  and 
see   my   mother.     Jeanne   accompanied 
me,  and  had  a  long  private  conference, 
from  which  she  returned  bathed  in  tears. 
I  anxiously  asked  the  cause  of  her  grief. 

"  The  good  Jeanne  is  grieved  to  part  with  thee, 
my  little  one,"  said  my  mother  kindly.  "  Thy 
parents  wish  thee  henceforth  to  live  at  home  with 
them." 

I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  pleased  or 
grieved  at  this  news.  1  adored  my  beautiful  pale 
mother,  but  it  was  with  a  kind  of  awful  reverence 
— something,  I  suppose,  like  that  a  nun  feels 
toward  an  image  of  the  Virgin  ;  but  I  had  never 
learned  to  be  at  all  free  with  her.  Could  I  ever 
lay  my  head  in  her  silken  lap  when  it  ached,  as  it 
often  did,  or  could  I  prattle  to  her  as  freely  of  all 
my  joys  and  sorrows  as  I  did  to  Mother  Jeanne  > 
Other  images  also  arose  before  my  eyes — images 
of  lessons  and  tasks  and  the  awful  dignity  I  should 
have  to  maintain  when  I  was  Mademoiselle  Gene- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  29 

vieve  instead  of  only  little  Vevette.  To  offset 
these  I  had  my  room — a  room  all  to  myself — a  bed 
with  worked  hangings,  and  a  carved  cabinet.  Then 
there  were  lessons  on  the  lute  and  in  singing,  which 
I  had  always  wished  for.  On  the  whole,  however, 
the  grief  predominated,  and  I  burst  into  tears. 

"  Fie  then  !"  said  Jeanne,  quite  shocked  at  my 
want  of  breeding,  though  she  had  been  sobbing 
herself  a  moment  before.  "Is  it  thus,  made- 
moiselle, that  you  receive  the  condescension  of 
madarae  your  mother  ?  What  will  she  think  of 
your  bringing  up  ?" 

"  Madame  could  think  but  ill  of  her  child  did 
she  show  no  feeling  at  parting  with  her  nurse,"  said 
my  mother  kindly.  "  But  cheer  up,  my  little 
daughter  ;  I  hope  you  will  be  happy  here.  We 
will  often  visit  our  good  friend.  Come,  do  not 
show  to  your  father  a  face  bathed  in  tears. ' ' 

I  wiped  my  eyes,  kissed  my  mother's  hand, 
which  she  held  out  to  me,  and  managed  to  say, 
"  Thank  you,  madame  !"  in  a  manner  not  quite 
unintelligible.  Then  Jeanne  humbly  preferred  her 
request.  Might  I  return  to  the  farm  for  one  day 
to  partake  of  a  farewell  feast  which  she  had  it  in 
mind  to  prepare  ?  My  mother  smiled  and  con- 
sented, and  I  returned  to  the  farm  feeling  that  I 
had  had  a  reprieve. 

The  feast  was  a  grand  affair,  though  the  company 
was  small,  consisting  only  of  our  own  family  and 
Father  Simon's  father  and  mother — very  old  people 
who  lived  in  a  cottage  down  near  the  sea-shore. 


30  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

Father  Simon  picked  out  his  reddest  apples  and  the 
finest  clusters  of  raisins  and  nuts.  Mother  Jeanne 
made  the  most  delicious  galettes  and  cream  soup 
thickened  with  chestnuts,  and  spread  her  whitest 
and  finest  cloth.  The  old  people  were  the  only  per- 
sons of  the  company  who  thoroughly  enjoyed  them- 
selves. Old  Sablot  chirped  like  a  cricket,  and  told 
old  stories  of  the  wars  of  the  League  and  of  Henry 
of  Navarre,  and  his  wife  commended  the  soup  and 
cakes,  the  eggs  and  custards,  and  imparted  choice 
secrets  in  cookery  to  her  daughter-in-law,  who  re- 
ceived them  with  all  due  deference,  though  she 
often  said  that  no  Korman  woman  ever  learned  to 
cook.  But  she  was  always  a  most  dutiful  daughter 
to  the  old  people,  and  had  quite  won  their  hearts, 
though  they  had  been  somewhat  opposed  to  Simon's 
marriage  in  the  first  place. 

We  children  were  very  silent,  as  indeed  became 
us  in  presence  of  our  elders  ;  and  though  we  were 
helped  to  everything  good  on  the  table  we  had  not 
much  appetite,  and  stole  out,  as  soon  as  we  were  dis- 
missed by  a  nod  from  the  mother,  to  hide  ourselves 
in  the  granary.  Here  we  had  a  playhouse  and  some 
dolls  of  our  own  making,  though  we — that  is, 
Lucille  and  I — were  rather  ashamed  of  playing 
with  them.  David  had  also  a  work-bench  with 
tools  and  a  turning-lathe,  which  had  been  his 
grandfather's.  The  old  man  had  given  them  to 
him  on  his  ladt  birthday,  and  David  had  learned  to 
use  them  very  cleverly.  We  did  not  speak  for  a 
moment  or  two,  and  then  David  observed, 


Tke  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  3  i 

"  How  dusty  it  is  here  !  To-morrow  we  must 
iweep  out  all  the  chips  and  shavings,  and  make  the 
place  tidy." 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  not  be  here,"  said  I  sor- 
rowfully. 

"  I  suppose  David  and  I  can  make  the  place 
neat  for  ourselves  if  you  are  not  here,"  said  Lucille, 
taking  me  up  rather  sharply. 

"  Lucille  !"  said  her  brother  reproachfully  ; 
and  then  turning  to  me,  ' '  But  you  will  come  and 
see  us  very  often." 

u  If  I  can,"  said  I;  ''but  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  a  great  many  lessons  to  do  now. ' ' 

"  Of  course  you  will,"  said  Lucille  ;  "  you  will 
have  to  learn  to  play  the  lute  and  to  write  and 
work  embroidery,  and  a  hundred  other  things. 
You  will  be  a  great  lady,  and  we  cannot  expect 
you  to  come  and  visit  us.  David  ought  to  know 
better  than  to  think  of  such  a  thing. " 

"  Lucille,  you  are  too  bad  to  say  such  things  !"  I 
cried  passionately  ;  "to  spoil  our  last  day  so.  I 
believe  you  are  glad  I  am  going  away." 

"I  am  not  either,"  she  answered  indignantly  ; 
"  I  am  as  sorry  as  David,  only  I  don't  want  to  be 
left  out  in  the  cold  while  you  two  pity  and  pet  one 
another." 

"  Children,  children  !"  said  a  voice  which  made 
us  all  start.  We  looked  toward  the  door,  and  there 
stood  the  cure  of  the  parish,  Father  Francois. 
He  was  old  and  fat.  and  somewhat  too  fond  of  eat- 
ing and  drinking  ;  bnt  he  was  a  kind  old  man,  and 


32  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

lived  in  peace  with  every  one,  Reformed  or  Roman- 
ist. "What  then  !"  he  was  wont  to  say;  "they 
are  all  my  sheep,  though  some  of  them  will  persist 
in  going  astray.  It  is  not  for  me  to  throw  stones  at 
them  or  set  the  dogs  on  them.  Let  me  rather  win 
them  back  by  kindness." 

"  Children  I"  said  he  gravely,  "are  you  quar- 
relling?" 

"  No,  monsieur,"  answered  David,  taking  ofl 
his  hat  to  the  priest,  while  Lucille  and  I  drew  to- 
gether and  clasped  hands,  forgetting  our  difference 
in  fear  of  we  knew  not  what.  The  old  man  ob- 
served the  movement,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  some 
emotion, 

"  But  what,  my  little  girls ;  are  you  afraid  of 
me?" 

"  No,"  answered  David  ;  "  Monsieur  has  al- 
ways been  kind,  but  he  must  know — " 

"  I  know,  I  know  !"  said  the  priest,  as  David 
paused  ;  * '  but  fear  nothing  from  me.  I  shall  not 
harm  you.  But,  oh,  my  children,  if  you  would 
but  return  to  the  bosom  of  our  Holy  Mother  ! 
Xow,  tell  me,  my  son — just  as  a  friend,  you  know 
—why  will  you  not  invoke  the  mediation  of  the 
blessed  saints  ?" 

"  Because,  monsieur,  it  is  contrary  to  the  Holy 
Scriptures,"  answered  David  respectfully. 

"  But  the  example  of  the  holy  saints  of  old,  my 
son — the  teachings  of  the  earliest  church — con- 
sider !" 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  David,  "  as  to  the  earliest 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  33 

teachings  of  the  church,  I  suppose  they  are  to  be 
found  in  the  Gospels,  and  I  read  there  that  when 
certain  women  would  have  brought  their  children 
to  our  dear  Lord,  the  disciples,  instead  of  interced- 
ing for  them,  forbade  them." 

u  Oh,  the  Scriptures — always  the  Scriptures  !" 
said  the  priest,  pettishly  enough. 

"  They  are  the  words  of  God,  monsieur  !" 

"  True,  my  child,  but  you  may  see  by  their  effects 
that  they  are  not  fit  for  every  one  to  read.  And 
yet  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  he  added  musingly  ; 
"  they  certainly  are  the  words  of  God,  and  meant 
to  do  people  good,  but  no  sooner  do  they  begin  to 
study  than  they  become  heretics." 

The  old  cure  ruminated  a  moment  over  this 
riddle,  and  then,  apparently  giving  it  up  as  hope- 
less, he  took  a  large  pinch  of  snuff  and  smiled  be- 
nignly upon  David. 

"  Ah,  well,  my  son,  I  did  not  come  to  argue, 
but  to  ask  a  favor  in  the  interest  of  charity.  My 
poor  sister,  who  is  dying  in  a  decline,  as  you  know, 
has  a  fancy  for  some  fresh  eggs,  and  there  are 
none  to  be  had.  But  I  know  your  mother  has  un- 
common skill  in  the  management  of  poultry,  and 
I  thought  perhaps  she  might  help  me  to  one  or 
two." 

"  That  1  am  sure  she  will,"  said  David.  "  If 
monsieur  will  walk  into  the  house  and  sit  down  I 
am  quite  certain  1  can  find  two  or  three  eggs  quite 
new  laid." 

Father  Simon  looked  surprised  as  the  old  priist 


34  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

entered,  but  made  him  courteously  welcome,  and 
Mother  Jeanne  directed  Lucille  to  put  up  a  jug  of 
cream  and  a  small  jar  of  marmalade  for  the  invalid. 
The  cure  thanked  her,  accepted  a  glass  of  cider, 
and  offered  his  snuff-box  to  old  Sablot. 

"Tut,  tut  !  don't  be  afraid,  man,"  said  he  as 
the  other  hesitated.  "  That  is  not  an  act  of  catho- 
licity, as  they  call  it  !"  and  he  muttered  some- 
thing under  his  breath  which  did  not  sound  like  a 
blessing. 

"  Monsieur  need  not  wonder  that  we  are  timid," 
remarked  Father  Simon. 

"No,  no,  it  is  no  wonder  ;  and  from  all  I  hear 
I  fear  that  times  are  not  likely  to  be  easier  for  you, 
my  poor  Sablot.  Have  you  been  to  Sartilly  of 
late?" 

"No,  monsieur,  I  have  little  to  take  me  that  way. " 

"  It  is  as  well.  Take  care  if  you  do  go.  It  is 
said  there  are  wolves  about,  or  likely  to  be  ;  and 
you  know  that  she-wolves  carry  off  children  at 
times.  Many  thanks  to  you,  Jeanne,"  he  added, 
rising  and  taking  the  little  basket  which  my  foster- 
mother  had  prepared ;  "  my  blessing  be  upon 
you  !  An  old  man's  blessing  can  do  no  harm,  you 
know.  Farewell  !" 

He  closed  the  door,  and  for  a  moment  the  party 
sat  looking  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"  "Wliat  does  he  mean  ?"  asked  Jeanne  at  last. 

"  He  means  to  give  UK  a  warning,  the  poor,  kind 
old  man,"  said  Simon.  "  I  doubt  not  he  made  hii 
errand  on  purpose,11 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  35 

"  Why  did  he  not  speak  more  plainly  then  ?"  said 
Jeanne  in  some  impatience.  u  Of  what  use  is  such 
a  warning  as  that  ?" 

' '  I  suppose  he  dared  not.  Remember,  my 
Jeanne,  in  what  a  difficult  place  he  stands.  He 
lias  risked  the  displeasure  of  his  superiors  already 
by  not  giving  information." 

"  But  what  can  he  mean  by  wolves  on  the  road 
to  Sartilly  ?"  asked  Jeanne. 

"  That  we  must  find  out,  and  meantime  we  must 
be  doubly  on  our  guard. ' ' 

"  They  are  all  alike — all  wolves  alike  !"  said  the 
old  man,  in  his  thin  voice.  "  Some  are  in  their 
own  skin,  some  in  sheep's  clothing ;  some  are  like 
the  loup-garou,*  and  speak  with  the  voice  of  a 
man  ;  and  they  are  the  worst  of  all." 

"  I  do  not  think  the  cure  looks  much  like  a 
wolf, ' '  I  ventured  to  say  ;  for  I  had  been  rather 
taken  with  the  old  man's  ways.  "  He  is  too  fat. 
"Wolves  are  always  thin,  and  they  howl  and  snarl." 

' '  Ah,  mademoiselle  !  but  remember  the  loup- 
garou  can  take  any  form  or  any  voice  he  pleases," 
said  the  old  man. 

"  Is  there  really  a  loup-garou  ?"  asked  David  ; 
"  I  thought  it  was  only  an  idle  tale." 

"  An- idle  tale  indeed  !  "What  is  the  world  com- 
ing to  ?  Did  not  my  grandfather  know  one  —  a 
man  who  used  to  turn  himself  into  a  wolf  and 
scour  the  country  at  night,  followed  by  his  pack, 

*  What  the  Germans  call  the  wehr-wolft  a  creature  com- 
pounded of  brute  and  human. 


36  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

and  devouring  all  in  his  way,  but  especially  women 
and  children.  They  caught  him  at  last,  and  he  was 
burned  at  Sartilly,  protesting  his  innocence  all  the 
time." 

"  Perhaps  he  was  innocent,"  said  David. 

"  Thou  shouldst  not  answer  thy  grandfather, 
David,"  said  his  mother  mildly  ;  "  that  is  rude. " 

"No,  no;  he  meant  no  harm,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  Let  it  pass.  You  women  are  always  find- 
ing fault  with  a  boy.  But  as  to  the  loup-garou. 
However,  we  will  tell  no  more  tales  to  scare  made- 
moiselle. It  is  well,  at  all  events,  to  remember 
that  the  good  Lord  is  above  all.  But  it  was  good 
snuff  the  poor  priest  had." 

I  inwardly  resolved  that  I  would  try  to  procure 
some  snuff  for  the  old  man,  and  that  I  would  bribe 
him  with  it  to  tell  me  more  tales  of  the  loup-garou, 
about  which  I  was  very  curious.  I  knew  there 
was  no  use  in  asking  Mother  Jeanne,  for  she  never 
would  tell  me  frightful  stories.  Indeed,  the  Re- 
formed were  not  nearly  as  much  under  the  influ- 
ence of  superstition  as  their  neighbors  of  the  other 
faith.  To  the  last  every  corner  had  its  goblins. 
In  this  dell  the  "  Washers"  were  to  be  seen  by  the 
unwary  night  traveller,  and  he  who  acceded  to  their 
courteous  request  to  assist  them  in  wringing  a  gar- 
ment had  his  own  heart's  blood  wrung  out,  and  be- 
came a  pale  spectre  himself.  If  he  escaped  these 
ghostly  laundresses,  there  were  the  dancers  on  the 
field  above,  who  were  equally  dangerous,  and 
another  female  demon  who  allured  young  men  into 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  37 

lonely  places  and  there  murdered  and  devoured 
them.  Our  country  neighbors  here  in  Cornwall  are 
bad  enough,  with  their  piskys,  and  fairies,  and  wish- 
hounds,  and  what  not,  but  they  are  not  so  bad  as 
the  people  in  Normandy  and  Brittany. 

That  night  Lucille  and  I  slept  together  for  the 
last  time.  Her  jealousy  was  quite  overcome  for 
the  time,  and  we  promised  that  we  would  always  be 
good  friends,  and  built  many  castles  in  the  air  on 
the  basis  of  that  future  friendship.  She  was  a  girl 
of  strong  character  in  some  respects,  and  of  great 
talents,  but  she  had  one  fault  which  made  her  and 
those  about  her  very  uncomfortable  at  times,  and 
which  came  near  working  her  utter  ruin.  It  is  not 
likely  that  she  will  ever  see  these  memoirs,  but  if 
she  should  do  so  she  would  not  be  hurt  by  them. 
The  tires  of  affliction  which  she  has  passed  through 
have  burned  up  the  dross  of  her  character,  and  little 
is  left  but  pure  gold. 

The  next  morning  we  went  up  to  the  chateau, 
and  Jeanne  took  leave  of  me  with  many  tears. 
Father  Simon  had  prayed  especially  and  earnestly 
for  me  at  our  morning  devotions,  and  had  solemnly 
given  me  his  blessing.  David  had  shaken  hands 
with  me,  and  then  run  away  to  hide  his  feelings. 
It  was  a  sorrowful  parting  on  both  sides,  and  when 
I  had  a  last  sight  of  Jeanne  turning  at  the  bend  of 
the  path  to  wave  her  hand  to  me,  I  felt  more  like 
an  exile  in  a  strange  land  than  a  child  coming  home 
to  its  father's  house.  So  I  thought  then,  knowing 
nothing  of  an  exile's  woes. 


38  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"  Now,  my  child,''  said  my  mother,  coming  into 
my  little  room,  where  I  had  shut  myself  up  to 
weep,  "  let  these  tears  be  dried.  They  are  natural, 
but  even  natural  grief  must  not  be  indulged  too  far. 
Bathe  these  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  arrange  your 
dress,  and  come  to  me  in  my  room  in  half  an  hour/' 

My  mother  spoke  gently  and  kindly,  but  with 
decision,  and  there  was  that  about  her  which  made 
her  least  word  a  law.  Besides,  I  believe,  to  say  the 
truth,  I  was  rather  tired  of  my  grief,  and  quite  will- 
ing to  be  consoled,  and  to  indulge  my  curiosity  as 
to  my  new  home.  So  I  bathed  my  eyes  as  I  had 
been  bidden,  smoothed  my  hair,  which  never  would 
stay  under  my  cap  properly,  but  was  always  twist- 
ing out  in  rebellious  little  curls,  and  began  to  ex- 
amine my  room. 

It  was  an  odd  Little  nook,  opening  from  my 
mother's,  as  is  the  custom  in  France  for  young 
ladies  of  good  family.  It  occupied  one  of  the 
corner  turrets  which  flanked  the  square  tower  of 
which  I  have  spoken.  The  walls  were  so  thick 
and  the  inclosed  space  so  small  that  I  used  to  com- 
pare the  room  in  my  own  mind  to  one  of  the  caves 
hollowed  in  the  rock  by  the  persecuted  Yaudois  of 
which  I  had  heard  from  Jeanne.  The  bed  was 
small,  with  heavy  damask  hangings  and  an  em- 
broidered coverlet.  There  was  no  carpet  on  the 
floor,  which  was  of  some  dark  wood  waxed  to  a 
dangerous  smoothness  ;  but  a  small  rug  was  laid  by 
the  side  of  the  bed  and  before  the  little  toilette- 
table.  The  rest  of  the  furniture  consisted  of  a 


The  C kev alter  s  Daughter.  39 

chair  and  stool,  and  a  small  table  on  which  lay  a 
Bible  and  two  or  three  books  in  a  language  which 
I  did  not  understand,  but  which  I  took  to  be  Eng- 
lish. In  an  ordinary  French  family  there  would 
have  been  a  crucifix  and  a  vase  for  holy  water,  and 
probably  an  image  of  the  Virgin  as  well  ;  but  it 
may  well  be  guessed  that  no  such  furniture  found 
a  place  in  our  household. 

Small  and  plain  as  the  room  was,  it  seemed  mag- 
nificent in  my  eyes,  and  I  felt  a  great  accession  of 
dignity  in  being  able  to  call  this  magnificent  apart- 
ment my  own.  I  looked  out  at  the  window — a 
very  narrow  one — and  was  delighted  to  find  that  it 
commanded  a  view  of  the  high  road  and  a  very 
little  tiny  bit  of  sea,  now  at  ebb  and  showing  only 
as  a  shining  line  on  the  edge  of  the  sands.  In 
short,  I  had  not  half  completed  the  survey  of  my 
new  quarters  before  I  was  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and 
when  my  mother  called  me  I  was  able  to  meet  her 
with  a  smiling  face.  I  should  have  said  that  my 
room  was  elevated  half  a  dozen  steep  steps  above 
my  mother's.  Indeed,  there  were  hardly  two  rooms 
in  the  house  on  a  level  with  each  other. 

"Why,  that  is  well,"  said  my  mother,  kissing 
my  cheek.  "  You  are  to  be  my  companion  and 
pupil  now,  little  daughter,  and  I  hope  that  we  shall 
be  very  happy  in  each  other's  society." 

She  then  made  me  sit  down  on  a  low  seat  beside 
her  own  chair,  and  examined  me  as  to  what  I  had 
learned.  She  heard  me  read,  examined  me  in  the 
Catechism,  and  asked  me  some  questions  on  the 


40  77/6'  Chevaliers  Daug/iter. 

Gospels,  to  all  of  which  I  gave,  I  believe,  satisfac- 
tory answers.  She  looked  at  my  sewing  and  knit- 
ting, and  praised  the  thread,  both  linen  and  wool, 
with  which  I  had  taken  great  pains. 

"  That  is  very  good  thread,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I 
must  teach  you  to  spin  on  the  wheel,  as  they  do  in 
England.  You  shall  learn  English  too,  and  then 
we  can  talk  together,  and  there  are  many  pleasant 
books  to  read  in  that  language.  You  must  learn  to 
write  also,  and  to  embroider." 

"Is  English  very  hard,  madame  ?"  1  ventured 
to  ask. 

"  It  is  called  so,  but  I  hope  to  make  it  easy  to 
you.  By  and  by,  when  we  have  mastered  the  writ- 
ing, we  will  have  some  lessons  on  the  lute.  But 
now  we  must  consult  Mistress  Grace  about  your 
dress.  Your  father  will  like  to  see  you  habited  like 
a  little  lady." 

My  mother  blew  the  silver  whistle  which  always 
lay  beside  her,  and  Mistress  Grace  entered  from  the 
anteroom.  She  was  a  tall,  thin  personage,  English 
to  the  backbone.  I  never  saw  a  plainer  woman  in 
my  life,  but  there  was  that  in  her  face  which  at 
once  attracted  confidence  and  regard.  She  was  my 
mother's  special  attendant,  and  ruled  the  household 
as  her  vicegerent  with  great  skill  and  firmness. 
The  servants  called  her  Mamselle  Grace,  or,  more 
commonly,  simply  Mamselle,  and  treated  her  with 
great  respect,  though  they  sometimes  laughed  at  her 
English  French  after  her  back  was  turned.  I  was 
taught  to  call  her  Mrs.  Grace,  in  English  fashion. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  41 

I  was  greatly  in  awe  of  her  at  first,  but  I  soon 
learned  to  love  her  as  well  as  Mother  Jeanne  herself. 

Mrs.  Grace  greeted  me  with  prim  courtesy. 

"  We  must  take  orders  for  some  dresses  for  our 
young  lady,  Grace,"  said  my  mother,  speaking 
French.  "  Will  you  see  what  we  have  for  her  ?" 

Mrs.  Grace  opened  an  armoire,  from  which  S!A 
drew  a  quantity  of  stuffs  and  silks,  and  an  animated 
conversation  ensued.  My  mother  kindly  allowed 
me  to  choose  what  I  liked  best,  and  we  were  in  the 
full  tide  of  discussion  when  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  my  father  entered  with  a  very  dis- 
turbed face,  which  brightened  as  he  inet  my 
mother's  glance. 

"  Heyday,  what  have  we  here  ?"  said  he.  "  Has 
Mrs.  Grace  taken  a  new  doll  to  dress  ?" 

"  This  is  our  little  one,  Arrnand,"  said  my 
mother  ;  "  I  have  taken  her  home,  judging  that  it 
is  time  to  complete  her  education,  and  also  for  a 
companion." 

"  That  is  well, "  said  he.  "Come  hither,  my 
little  one,  and  see  thy  father." 

I  approached  timidly,  bent  my  knee,  and  kissed 
the  hand  he  held  out  to  me.  He  laid  the  other  on 
my  head  and  solemnly  gave  me  his  blessing.  Then, 
holding  me  off  and  looking  at  me, 

"  Why,  'tis  a  true  Corbet,"  said  he  ;  "  the  very 
image  of  thy  mother,  dearest  Margeret. "  Then  with 
a  sudden  change  of  tone,  ' '  I  only  wish  she  and  thou 
were  safe  in  the  dear  old  mother's  wing,  the  gray 
house  at  Tre  Madoc. " 


42  7 he  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

My  mother's  pale  cheek  flushed  a  little.  "  Hav 
anything  new  happened  ?"  she  asked. 

"  New  ?  Yes  !  The  vultures  are  gathering  to 
the  carcass,  Margeret.  We  are  to  be  left  in  peace 
no  longer  in  our  quiet  corner.  The  old  convent  at 
Sartilly  is  opened  once  more  with  a  band  of  nuns 
and  a  black  Dominican  for  a  confessor.  They  call 
it  a  hospital — we  all  know  what  that  means  nowa- 
days." 

My  mother  threw  an  arm  round  me  as  if  to  pro- 
tect me,  and  I  felt  it  tremble. 

"  Then  that  was  what  the  cure  meant,"  said  I, 
struck  with  a  sudden  light.  I  was  a  quick  child, 
and  the  danger  which  was  always  in  the  background 
sharpened  the  wits  of  all  children  of  the  Religion. 
"  That  was  what  he  meant  by  the  wolves  !"  And 
then,  struck  by  the  impropriety  I  had  committed  in 
speaking  without  being  addressed,  I  faltered,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  monsieur." 

"  There  is  no  offence,  my  child  ;  and  you  must 
not  say  monsieur,  but  my  father,"  said  he,  sitting 
down  and  drawing  me  to  him.  "  Tell  me  what  was 
that  about  the  cure  and  the  wolves." 

I  repeated  my  story. 

"  You  are  a  clear-headed  little  maiden,"  said  lie, 
"  and  have  a  quick  wit.  What  did  Simon  Sahlot 
think  of  the  matter  ?" 

u  He  said,  monsieur — my  father,"  I  added,  cor- 
recting myself,  "  that  the  good  man  meant  to  give 
us  a  warning,  and  had  probably  made  his  errand  on 
purpose." 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  43 

* '  More  likely  to  spy  out  the  nakedness  of  the 
land,"  muttered  Grace,  to  whom  all  priests  were 
alike. 

"  Nay,  my  Grace,  do  the  poor  man  justice,"  said 
my  father.  "  The  Jesuits  cannot  make  the  whole 
nation  over  into  tigers,  not  even  the  priests.  The 
poor  old  man  has  grown  up  on  our  lands,  as  his 
father  did  before  him,  and  I  believe  he  feels  kindly 
toward  us.  But  I  wish,  oh  I  wish  thou  and  the 
little  one  were  in  safety,  my  Marguerite. ' ' 

My  mother  said  some  words  in  English  which  I 
did  not  understand,  and  then  in  French,  "  But  what 
shall  we  do,  Armand,  to  guard  against  this  new 
danger?" 

"  We  can  only  do  as  we  have  done  in  our  family, 
but  I  fear  we  must  abandon  our  Sunday  gatherings 
for  the  present.  The  risk  will  be  too  great  with 
such  neighbors  to  spy  upon  us.  But  we  will  con- 
sult together.  Run  away  now,  my  little  one,  and 
explore  the  house,  only  do  not  go  into  the  upper 
rooms  of  the  round  tower.  Some  of  the  floors  are 
dangerous.  However,  you  may  go  to  the  battle- 
ments if  you  like.  The  stairs  are  safe  enough." 

"  Only  return  at  once  when  you  hear  the  bell," 
said  my  mother.  "  To-day  shall  be  a  holiday  for 
you  ;  to-morrow  we  will  begin  our  lessons.  But 
first  go  with  Grace  and  let  her  take  your  measure." 

"  Why  is  it  so  dangerous  to  have  a  hospital  at 
Sartilly  ?"  I  ventured  to  a.<k  Grace  at  a  pause  in  her 
operations;  "I  thought  a  hospital  was  a  place 
where  poor  pick  people  were  taken  care  of." 


44  The  CJicialicrs  Daughter. 

"  So  it  is  in  a  Christian  land,  mademoiselle,"  an- 
swered Grace  ;  "  there  are  many  such  in  England. 
But  now  and  here  a  hospital  means  a  place  where 
young  people  of  the  Religion  are  shut  up  away  from 
their  parents  and  taught  to  worship  images  and  say 
prayers  to  the  Virgin  and  the  saints — yes,  pretty 
saints  some  of  them,"  she  added,  in  English. 
"  There,  I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoiselle.  It  is 
not  good  manners  to  speak  in  a  foreign  tongue  be- 
fore those  who  do  not  understand  it." 

"  Madame  says  she  will  teach  me  English  soon," 
I  observed  ;  "  I  shall  like  that  if  it  is  not  too  hard. " 

"  Oh,  it  will  not  be  hard  to  you  ;  you  are  half  an 
English  woman,"  replied  Grace. 

"  And  will  you  tell  me  tales  sometimes  about 
England,  and  the  place  where  my  mother  lived 
wlien  she  was  a  young  lady  ?  I  shall  like  so  much 
to  hear  them.  I  love  to  look  at  Jersey  when  we 
can  see  it,  because  it  is  a  part  of  England." 

Grace's  heart  was  quite  won  by  this  request. 
She  kissed  me,  and  called  me  a  pretty  dear  in  her 
own  tongue,  which  phrase,  of  course,  I  did  not  un- 
derstand, only  I  saw  that  it  meant  something  kind 
and  friendly.  Once  released  I  ran  all  over  the 
house,  peeped  into  the  great  old  kitchen,  where  I 
received  many  welcomes  and  blessings  from  the  old 
servants,  and  ascended  to  the  top  of  the  rouifcl 
tower  to  gaze  at  the  sea  and  at  Mount  St.  Michael, 
now  glowing  in  the  autumn  sunshine.  True  to 
the  habits  of  implicit  obedience  in  which  I  hail 
been  brought  up,  I  did  not  rvi-n  open  thr,  dour 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  45 

which  led  into  the  upper  floors  of  the  tower,  though 
I  confess  to  a  strong  temptation  to  do  so.  I  ad- 
mired the  salon  hung  with  tapestry  and  adorned 
with  carved  furniture  and  various  grim  family  pic- 
tures. I  wondered  what  was  in  the  cabinets,  and 
studied  the  story  of  Judith  worked  in  the  hangings, 
and  had  not  half  finished  my  survey  when  the  bell 
rang,  and  I  hastened  to  my  mother's  room. 

We  dined  in  considerable  state,  being  waited  on 
by  two  men-servants,  while  Mistress  Grace  stood 
behind  her  lady's  chair  and  directed  their  move- 
ments. The  fare,  though  plain  enough,  was  dainty 
compared  to  what  I  was  accustomed  to  at  the  cot- 
tage, and  1  should  have  enjoyed  my  dinner  only  for 
a  feeling  of  awkwardness,  and  a  look  in  Mistress 
Grace's  eyes  as  if  she  were  longing  to  pounce  upon 
me.  I  got  pounced  upon  many  a  time  after  that, 
for  great  stress  was  laid  upon  table  etiquette  in 
those  days.  More  than  once  I  was  sent  away  from 
the  table  in  disgrace,  not  so  much  for  mistakes  I 
made  as  for  fuming  or  pouting  at  having  them  cor- 
rected. 

The  next  day  my  lessons  began.  I  had  my  task 
of  Scripture  and  the  Catechism  to  learn,  as  at  the 
cottage.  Great  stress  was  laid  in  the  families  of 
the  Religion  on  this  learning  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
with  good  reason,  for  we  were  liable  at  any  time  to 
be  deprived  of  our  Bibles,  or  indeed  to  be  shut  up 
where  we  could  not  have  read  if  we  had  them  ; 
but  that  which  was  stored  in  our  minds  no  one  could 
take  from  us.  I  learned  to  write  and  began  Eng- 


46  7^/ie  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

lish,  and,  thanks  to  the  pains  and  skill  of  my 
mother  and  the  conversations  I  held  with  Mrs. 
Grace  in  our  working  hours,  I  soon  learned  to  speak 
the  language  with  considerable  fluency,  as  well  a.- 
to  read  in  two  or  three  English  books  which  my 
mother  possessed.  1  learned  to  spin  on  the  little 
wheel  which  my  mother  had  had  sent  her  from  Eng- 
land, and  was  greatly  delighted  when  I  was  allowed 
to  carry  down  to  Mother  Jeanne  some  skeins  of 
thread  of  my  own  manufacture. 

"  But  it  is  beautiful — no  less,"  said  Jeanne  ; 
"  and  done,  you  say,  not  with  spindle  and  distaff,  but 
with  the  little  machine  I  have  seen  in  madame's 
boudoir.  See,  Lucille,  my  child  !" 

*'  It  is  good  thread,  but  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  so 
much  better  than  ours,*'  said  Lucille,  somewhat 
slightingly.  "  And  1  do  not  see  why  one  should 
take  so  much  pains  to  learn  to  spin  in  this  new 
fashion.  The  spindle  and  distaff  are  much  better, 
I  think,  because  they  can  be  carried  about  with  one. 
I  can  spin  when  I  am  going  to  ilie  fountain  for 
water  or  to  the  pasture  for  the  cows.  Yevette  can- 
not do  that  with  her  grand  wheel." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  I,  a  little  tub -n  down  : 
"  but  one  can  accomplish  so  much  more.  My 
mother  can  spin  more  with  the  wheel  in  an  hour 
than  one  can  do  with  the  distaff  in  half  a  day,  and 
I  am  sure  the  thread  is  more  even." 

"  Ah,  well,  the  method  of  my  grandmother  is 
good  enough  for  inc."  said  Lucille  :  u  I  am  a  Nor- 
rnau  girl,  and  not  jn  Kngli»li  lady."  And  she  tool; 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  47 

up  her  distujf  as  she  spoke,  and  began  drawing  out 
her  flax  with  a  care  and  attention  which  showed  she 
was  offended. 

"  Do  you  think,  Memselle  Yevette,  thatmadame 
would  condescend  to  let  me  look  at  this  wheel  of 
hers  ?"  said  David.  "  I  should  like  so  much  to  see 
it." 

"  Why,  do  you  think  you  could  make  one  like 
it?"  I  asked.  "Oh,  do,  David!  Make  one  for 
Lucille,  and  I  will  teach  her  to  use  it." 

"  Thank  you  !"  said  Lucille  in  a  tone  which  did 
not  bespeak  much  gratitude  ;  "  I  have  already  said 
that  Norm  an  fashions  are  good  enough  for  me." 
And  then,  softening  her  tone  as  she  saw  how  morti- 
fied I  was,  "  I  dare  say  David  would  like  to  make 
a  wheel,  and  if  he  succeeded  you  would  have  one 
of  your  own  as  well  as  madame." 

I  may  as  well  say  here  that,  after  many  efforts 
and  failures,  and  by  the  help  of  his  uncle,  who  was 
the  blacksmith  at  Sartilly,  David  succeeded  in  con- 
structing a  very  nice  spinning-wheel,  which  he  pre- 
sented to  me  on  my  birthday.  I  wonder  whether 
that  wheel  is  still  in  use,  or  whether  it  has  been 
thrown  aside  in  some  garret  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

TO  UT  HFUL     DAYS. 


MUST  now  pass  somewhat  rapidly  over 
four  or  five  years  of  my  life.  These 
years  were  spent  quietly  at  home  with 
my  dear  father  and  mother  at  the  Tour 
d'Antin.  I  was  my  mother's  constant  companion, 
and  she  instructed  me  herself  in  all  that  she  thought 
it  desirable  for  me  to  know,  which  was  much  more 
than  was  considered  necessary  for  demoiselles  in 
general.  I  learned  to  read  and  write  both  English 
and  Italian,  and  I  read  many  books  in  the  former 
language  which  my  mother  had  brought  from  home, 
or  which  had  been  sent  to  her  from  England  since 
her  marriage.  These  books  would  hardly  have 
passed  any  French  custom-house,  for  a  very  sharp 
'ookout  was  kept  at  these  places  for  heretical  pub- 
lications ;  but  there  were  two  or  three  vessels  sail  ing 
from  small  ports  on  the  coast,  and  commanded  by 
persons  of  the  Religion,  by  means  of  which,  at  rare 
intervals,  my  mother  used  to  receive  a  package  or 
letter  from  her  friends  in  England. 

Thus  she  become  possessed  of  a  copy  of  that  most 
excellent  book,  k'  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man,"  which 


The  Chevalier  s  DaugJiter.  49 

F  read  till  I  knew  it  almost  bj  heart  ;  "  The  Practice 
of  Piety,"  Mr.  Taylor's  "Holy  Living  and 
Dying,"  and  other  excellent  religious  Looks  of 
which  that  age,  dissolute  as  it  was,  produced  a  great 
many.  Sometimes  my  mother  received  other  books 
and  pamphlets,  which  she  would  not  allow  me  even 
to  look  at,  and  many  of  which  she  burned  with  her 
own  hands.  These  were  plays  and  stories  written 
by  such  authors  as  were  in  favor  at  the  court  of 
King  Charles  II. 

The  greatest  disgrace  I  ever  fell  into  with  my 
parents  came  from  stealing  one  of  these  books,  and 
hiding  myself  away  in  the  old  tower  to  read  it.  It 
was  a  very  witty  play,  and  I  was  at  first  delighted 
with  it,  but  my  conscience  soon  made  me  aware 
that  it  was  a  wicked  book  ;  for,  though  of  course  I 
did  not  half  understand  it,  I  could  see  how  profane  it 
was,  and  how  lightly  and  wickedly  the  most  sacred 
name  was  used.  My  mother  missed  the  book  when 
she  came  to  put  away  the  contents  of  the  package, 
and  asked  me  whether  I  had  seen  it. 

"  No,  maman,"  I  answered  ;  but  I  was  not  used 
to  lying,  and  my  face  betrayed  me.  1  was  forced  to 
confess  and  bring  back  the  book.  My  mother's 
stern  anger  was  all  the  more  dreadful  to  me  that 
she  was  usually  so  gentle.  She  would  hear  of  no 
excuse  or  palliation. 

"You  have  deceived  me!"  said  she;  "my 
daughter,  whom  I  trusted,  has  hed  to  me.  To 
gain  a  few  moments  of  guilty  pleasure  she  has  dis- 
obeyed her  mother,  and  shamefully  lied  to  conceal 


5<3  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

her  disobedience.  I  want  no  words.  I  must  quiet 
my  own  spirit  before  I  talk  with  yon.  Go  to  your 
own  room,  and  remain  till  you  have  permission  to 
leave  it.  Think  what  you  have  done,  and  ask  par- 
don of  Him  whom  you  have  offended,  and  who  ab- 
hors a  lie." 

I  did  as  I  was  bid,  but  in  no  humble  spirit.  On 
the  contrary,  my  heart  was  full  of  wrath  and  rebel- 
lion. In  my  own  mind  I  accused  my  mother  of 
harsh  unkindness  in  making,  as  I  said  to  myself, 
such  a  fuss  about  such  a  little  matter.  Always  in- 
clined to  be  hard  and  stubborn  under  reproof,  I  was 
determined  to  justify  myself  in  my  own  eyes.  I 
said  to  myself  that  I  was  unjustly  treated,  that  there 
was  no  such  harm  in  reading  a  story-book,  and  so 
forth,  and  I  set  myself  to  remember  all  I  possibly 
could  of  the  play,  and  to  form  in  my  own  mind  an 
image  of  the  gay  world  which  it  described.  Oh,  if 
I  could  only  live  in  a  great  city — in  London  or 
Paris — instead  of  such  a  lonely  old  place  as  the  Tour 
d'Antin  !  But  by  degrees  my  conscience  made  it- 
self heard.  I  remembered  how  kind  and  good  my 
mother  had  always  been  to  me :  how  she  had  laid 
aside  her  own  employments  to  amuse  me  that  I 
might  not  feel  the  want  of  companions  of  my  own 
age  ;  in  short,  when  my  mother  came  to  me  at  bed- 
tiine  I  was  as  penitent  and  humble  as  she  could  de- 
sire. She  forgave  me,  and  talked  to  me  very 
kindly  of  my  fault. 

"  Never,  never,  read  a  bad  book,  my  child,"  she 
said.     "  You  thereby  do  yourself  an  incalculable 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  51 

injury.  We  have  not  the  power  of  forgetting  any- 
thing. However  deeply  our  impressions  may  be 
covered  by  others,  they  are  still  in  existence,  and 
likely  to  be  revived  at  any  time.  No  man  can 
touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled,  and  no  one  can  read 
and  take  pleasure  in  a  bad  book  without  being  led 
into  sin.  You  become  like  what  your  mind  dwells 
upon.  'As  a  man  thinketh,  so  is  he.'  Thus  by 
thinking  of  and  meditating  upon  the  deeds  of  good 
men,  and  more  especially  those  of  our  dear  Lord, 
we  are  made  like  them,  and  are  changed  into  the 
same  image.  This  caution  in  reading  is  especially 
needful  to  you,  my  Yevette,  as  you  are  by  nature 
facile  and  easily  impressed." 

"  But,  maman,  why  does  my  uncle  send  such 
books  ?' '  I  ventured  to  ask. 

My  mother  sighed. 

"  Your  uncle,  my  love,  does  not  think  of  such 
things  as  I  do.  He  lives  in  the  gay  world  of  the 
court,  where  these  things  which  your  father  and  I 
consider  all-important  are  but  little  regarded,  or,  if 
thought  of  at  all,  are  considered  as  subjects  for 
mockery. ' ' 

"  But,  marnan,  I  thought  all  English  people  were 
of  the  Religion.  I  thought  they  used  the  beautiful 
prayers  in  your  prayer-book." 

My  mother  sighed  again. 

"  That  is  true,  my  child,  but  it  is  possible  to  hold 
the  truth  in  unrighteousness.  Here,  where  to  be  of 
the  Religion  is  to  put  one' s  neck  into  the  halter, 
there  is  no  temptation  to  the  careless  and  dissolute 


52  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

to  join  our  numbers.  Tet  even  here,  under  the 
very  cross  of  persecution,  the  church  is  far  from 
perfect.  But  we  will  talk  more  another  time." 

I  was  so  penitent  and  so  humbled  in  my  own 
eyes  that  I  made  no  objection  when  my  mother  de- 
prived me  of  my  two  grand  sources  of  amusement 
— the  "  Arcadia"  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  Mr.  Ed-J 
mund  Spenser's  "  Fairy  Queen" — telling  me  that 
she  should  not  let  me  have  them  again  for  a  month. 
I  am  somewhat  inclined  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
this  measure.  I  know  it  threw  me  back  upon  my- 
self for  amusement  in  the  hours  when  I  was  de- 
prived of  my  mother's  society,  and  left  me  more 
time  to  meditate,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  to  dream 
of  that  gay  fairy-land  to  which  the  volume  of  plays 
had  introduced  me.  However,  I  had  them  back 
again  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  and  with  them  a 
new  book — a  great  quarto  volume  of  voyages  and 
travels,  with  several  historical  pieces,  collected  by 
Mr.  Ilackluyt,  formerly  a  preacher  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. This  gave  a  new  turn  to  my  thoughts.  I 
rejoiced  in  the  destruction  of  the  great  Armada,  and 
wept  while  I  exulted  over  the  glorious  death  of  Sir 
Richard  Greville,  and  travelled  to  the  Indies  and 
the  £sew  World  and  dreamed  over  their  marvels. 
When  I  went,  as  I  did  now  and  then,  to  visit  my 
old  friends  at  the  farm,  I  entertained  David  with 
these  talcs  by  the  hour  together,  and  even  Lucille 
forgot  her  jealousy  to  listen.  What  castles  hi  the 
air  we  built  on  the  margins  of  those  great  rivers, 
and  what  colonies  we  planted  in  those  unknown 


The  Chevalier  s  DaugJtter.  53 

lands — colonies  where  those  of  the  Religion  were  to 
find  a  peaceful  refuge,  and  from  which  all  the  evils 
incident  to  humanity  were  to  be  excluded  !  They 
were  harmless  dreams  at  the  least,  and*  served  to 
amuse  us  for  many  a  long  hour.  I  have  seen  some 
of  these  colonies  since  then,  and  have  learned  that 
wherever  man  goes  his  three  great  foes — the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil — go  also. 

Our  new  neighbors  at  the  hospital  of  St.  Jacques 
— St.  James  indeed  !  I  should  like  to  hear  what  he 
would  have  said  to  them — gave  us  little  trouble  for 
some  time.  Indeed,  they  had  troubles  enough  of 
their  own.  They  were  hardly  settled  in  their  new 
abode  before  a  dreadful  pestilential  fever  broke  out 
among  them,  and  several  of  the  nuns  died,  while 
others  were  so  reduced  that  there  were  not  enough 
of  well  to  tend  the  sick.  The  French  country 
people  have  a  great  dread  of  infection,  so  that  no- 
body would  go  near  them  ;  and  I  don't  know  but 
they  would  have  starved  only  that  my  father  him- 
self on  one  or  two  occasions  carried  them  provisions, 
wine,  and  comforts  for  the  sick.  There  was  great 
talk  about  the  sickness,  and  those  of  the  Religion  did 
not  hesitate  to  ascribe  it  to  the  pestiferous  air  of  the 
cellars  and  vaults,  which  were  known  to  be  very  ex- 
tensive, arid  in  which  several  persons  had  died  after 
iong  confinement. 

"  It  is  the  avenging  ghost  of  poor  Denise  Am- 
blot,  who  perished  there  with  her  infant,"  said  old 
Marie,  our  cook. 

"Not   so,    my   Marie,"    answered   my  mother; 


54  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

"  Denise  has  long  been  in  paradise,  if  indeed  she 
did  perish  as  reported,  and  is  happily  in  better  em- 
ployments than  avenging  herself  on  these  poor 
creatures.  Yet  it  may  well  be  that  the  bad  air  of 
the  vaults  so  long  used  as  prisons  may  have  poisoned 
those  living  over  them." 

After  the  fever  came  a  fire,  which  broke  out  mys- 
teriously and  consumed  all  the  fuel  and  provisions 
which  the  nuns  had  laid  up  for  winter  ;  and,  to  crown 
all,  a  sort  of  reservoir  or  pond,  supposed  by  some 
to  be  artificial,  which  supplied  a  stream  running 
through  the  convent  grounds,  burst  its  barriers  one 
night  after  a  heavy  storm  of  rain.  The  muddy 
torrent,  bearing  everything  before  it — trees,  walls, 
and  even  the  very  rocks  in  its  course — swept  through 
the  garden  and  washed  away  the  soil  itself,  besides 
filling  the  church  with  mud  and  debris  half  way  up 
to  the  roof.  Whether  the  hand  of  man  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  these  disasters  1  do  not  know,  but 
it  is  not  impossible.  At  any  rate,  the  two  or  three 
nuns  who  were  left  returned  to  Avranches,  from 
whence  they  had  come,  and  the  place  was  again 
abandoned  to  the  owls  and  other  doleful  creatures 
which  haunt  deserted  buildings. 

Meantime  all  over  France  the  tide  of  persecution 
was  rising  and  spreading,  carrying  ruin  arid  devas- 
tation far  and  wide.  There  was  no  more  any  safety 
for  those  of  the  Religion.  From  all  sides  came  the 
story  of  terror,  of  bereavement,  of  oppression,  of 
flight.  Every  day  brought  new  infringements  of  the 
edict,  new  encroachments  on  our  rights  and  liberties. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  55 

The  very  sick  and  dying — nay,  they  more  than  any 
others— were  objects  of  attack.  Every  physician 
was  ordered,  on  pain  of  a  heavy  fine  at  the  least,  to 
give  notice  to  the  mayor  and  the  priest  of  the 
parish  whenever  he  was  called  upon  to  visit  one  of 
the  Religion.  Then  the  sick  man  was  besieged  with 
arguments,  with  threats,  and  horrible  representations 
of  the  present  and  the  future,  if  he  yielded,  which 
was  seldom  the  case,  his  conversion  was  trumpeted 
as  a  triumph  of  the  faith.  If  he  persevered,  as 
ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  did,  he  was  left  to 
perish  without  help  or  medicine,  and  his  dead  body 
was  cast  out  like  a  dog's  in  the  next  ditch.  It  was 
at  the  peril  of  life  that  a  mother  repeated  to  her 
dying  child,  or  a  child  to  its  parent,  a  few  comfort- 
ing texts  of  Scripture 'Or  a  hymn.  The  alms  col- 
lected among  the  Reformed  for  the  solace  of  their 
own  poor  were  seized  upon  and  used  for  the  main- 
tenance of  the  so-called  hospitals,  which  were  sim- 
ply prisons  where  young  people  and  women  were 
shut  up,  and  every  effort  made,  both  by  threats  and 
cajolery,  to  induce  them  ' '  to  return  to  the  bosom  of 
their  tender  and  gentle  mother  the  Church" — that 
was  the  favorite  phrase.  A  few  gave  way  and  were 
set  at  liberty,  but  of  these  the  most  part  sooner  or 
later  recanted  their  recantations,  with  bitter  tears  of 
penitence  and  shame. 

But  those  mothers  and  fathers  who  knew  that 
their  dead  were  dead,  and  entered  into  the  rest  of 
their  Lord,  were  happy  in  comparison  with  others, 
whose  sons  were  in  the  galleys  chained  to  the  oar 


56  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

with  the  vilest  of  the  vile,  with  felons  and  mur- 
derers, sleeping  on  their  benches  if  at  sea,  driven  by 
the  lash  like  brute  cattle  to  pestiferous  dungeons  if 
on  land,  and  liable  at  any  time  to  be  condemned  to 
perpetual  imprisonment  or  shot  down  and  cast  to 
the  waves.  And  even  these  had  not  the  worst  of 
it.  There  were  hundreds  of  mothers  who  were  en- 
tirely in  the  dark  as  to  the  fate  of  their  daughters. 
The  convents  all  over  the  land  were  filled  with  such 
girls,  seduced  from  their  homes  on  any  or  no  pre- 
text, and  dragged  away,  never  to  be  seen  again. 
Whether  they  recanted  and  were  made  nuns, 
whether  they  remained  firm  and  suffered  life-long 
imprisonment  and  a  horrible  death,  their  fate  was 
equally  unknown  to  their  friends.  In  some  of  the 
convents,  no  doubt,  were  conscientious  women,  who 
did  their  duty  according  to  their  lights,  and  were  as 
kind  to  their  prisoners  as  circumstances  permitted  ; 
but  there  were  others  who  sought  to  augment  their 
treasure  of  good  works  and  win  heaven,  as  they  say, 
by  exercising  every  severity,  and  trampling  upon 
any  natural  feelings  of  compassion  which  might 
arise  in  their  breasts.  Worse  still,  many  convents 
were  known  to  be  schools  of  worldliness  and  vice, 
where  the  most  dissolute  manners  prevailed.  This 
was  notably  the  case  with  the  rich  houses  near  Paris, 
where  the  superiors  were  often  appointed  by  the 
king's  mistress  for  the  time  being,  and  the  convent 
was  a  resort  for  the  gay  young  gentlemen  of  the 
court. 

But  it  was  upon  the  pastors  that  the  vials  of  wrath 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.  57 

were  most  lavishly  poured  out.  Some,  whose  flocks 
were  already  scattered,  escaped  to  foreign  lands, 
but  many  remained  behind  to  comfort  their  afflicted 
brethren.  These  were  never  for  one  moment  in 
security.  They  journeyed  from  place  to  place  in 
all  soils  of  disguises  ;  they  slept  in  dens  and  caves  of 
the  earth,  or  under  the  open  sky  ;  holding  a  mid- 
night meeting  here,  comforting  a  dying  person  or  a 
bereaved  parent  there  ;  now  celebrating  the  Lord's 
Supper,  in  some  lonely  grange  or  barn,  to  those  of 
the  faithful  who  had  risked  everything  to  break 
together  the  bread  of  life  once  more  ;  now  baptiz- 
ing a  babe,  perhaps  by  the  bedside  of  its  dying 
mother,  or  uniting  some  loving  and  faithful  pair  of 
lovers  who  wished  to  meet  the  evils  of  life  to- 
gether.* Hunted  down  like  wild  beasts,  they  were 
condemned,  if  captured,  to  the  gallows  or  the 
wheel,  without  even  the  pretence  of  a  trial,  after 
all  temptations  of  pardons  and  rewards  had  failed  to 
shake  their  faith.  Now  and  then — very  rarely — 
some  one  abjured  ;  but,  as  I  have  said,  these  usually 
abjured  their  abjuration  at  the  first  opportunity,  or 
died  in  agonies  of  remorse  and  despair. 

As  I  have  remarked  before,  our  narrow  corner 
of  the  world  had  hitherto  got  off  easily,  and  we 
lived  in  comparative  safety  and  in  friendship 
with  our  neighbors.  But  the  time  was  coming,  and 
close  at  hand,  when  the  storm  was  to  reach  alike  the 
lofty  aerie  and  the  lowly  nest.  My  mother,  I  be- 

*  See  any  collection  of  Huguenot  memoirs. 


58  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

lieve,  would  have  been  glad  to  emigrate  at  once. 
She  thought  with  longings  inexpressible  of  her  quiet 
English  home  in  the  valley  of  Tre  Madoc,  of  the  old 
red-stone  house  overhung  with  trees,  where  dwelt 
peace  and  quietness,  with  none  to  molest  or  make 
afraid  ;  of  the  little  gray  church  on  the  moor,  with 
its  tall  tower,  which  served  as  a  beacon  to  the  wan- 
dering sailor,  where  the  pure  word  of  God  was 
preached,  and  the  old  people  and  little  children 
came  every  Sunday. 

My  mother  always  loved  the  English  Church.  She 
kept  her  prayer-book  by  her,  and  used  to  read  it 
every  day.  She  taught  me  many  precious  lessons 
out  of  it,  so  that  when  I  was  twelve  years  old  I 
knew  it  almost  by  heart.  This  love  of  here  for  the 
English  Church  was  in  some  degree  shared  by  my 
father,  and,  as  I  heard  afterward,  was  a  reason  for 
his  being  looked  coldly  upon  by  some  of  the  Re- 
ligion, to  whom  the  very  name  of  bishop  was  an 
abomination  ;  and  no  wonder,  since  with  them  it  was 
another  name  for  oppressor  and  persecutor.  But 
they  found,  when  the  trial  came,  that  the  Chevalier 
d'Antin  and  his  gentle  lady  were  as  ready  to  put  all 
to  hazard  for  their  faith  as  the  best  of  them. 

As  I  have  said,  my  mother  was  desirous  of  emi- 
grating, as  so  many  others  had  done.  But  my 
father  would  not  consent  to  forsake  his  poor  tenants 
and  peasants,  many  of  whom  had  come  with  him 
from  Provence.  lie  thought  himself  in  some  sort 
their  shepherd,  and  responsible  for  their  welfare. 
This  was  a  very  different  estimation  from  that  in 


The  Chcvaner  s    "DaugTiter,  59 

which  some  of  our  neighbors  held  their  people. 
There  were  three  or  four  large  estates  about 
Avranches  and  St.  Lo,  the  owners  of  which  lived  in 
Paris  the  year  round,  or  followed  the  court  in  its 
movements,  and  left  their  lands  and  people  to  the 
care  of  agents,  taking  no  thought  for  them  except  to 
extract  from  them  as  much  money  as  possible.  But 
such  was  not  my  father's  idea.  He  held  that  every 
large  landowner  was  a  steward  under  God,  responsi- 
ble for  the  welfare  of  those  placed  under  his  charge, 
and  that  he  had  no  right  to  use  his  estate  merely 
for  his  own  enriching  or  aggrandizement.  One 
who  did  so  he  held  for  an  unfaithful  servant,  who 
would  be  called  to  a  strict  account  whenever  his 
Lord  should  return,  and  who  could  expect  nothing 
else  for  his  reward  than  outer  darkness  and  gnash- 
ing of  teeth.  1  have  seen  something  of  great  land- 
owners since  that  day,  and  1  fear  this  idea  of  duty 
is  very  far  from  common  among  them.  Certainly  I 
have  never  known  one,  unless  it  is  my  husband,  who 
fulfilled  it  as  my  father  did.  He  was  not  always 
dictating  or  patrom'zing.  He  did  not  regard  his 
tenants  and  workpeople  either  as  little  children  or 
as  dumb  beasts,  but  as  rational,  accountable 
creatures.  Of  course  he  met  with  plenty  of  hin- 
drance and  opposition.  The  Korman  is  a  slow 
thinker,  and  very  conservative.  That  "  our  fathers 
did  so' '  is  reason  enough  for  them  to  do  so  also,  and 
they  are  as  full  of  prejudice  arid  superstition  as  any 
people  in  France,  except  perhaps  their  neighbors  of 
Brittany.  But  they  are  good  honest  folk,  sober  for 


60  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

the  most  part,  except  on  some  special  occasions,  very 
industrious,  and  extremely  domestic  and  frugal  in 
their  habits.  Their  houses  are  generally  comfort- 
able, according  to  French  ideas,  and  they  often  have 
a  great  deal  of  wealth  laid  by  in  the  shape  of  fine 
linen,  gold  ornaments,  and  furniture.  Oh,  how  I 
should  like  to  see  the  inside  of  a  Norman  farm-house 
once  more  !  Those  very  cakes  of  sarrasin,  which  I 
used  to  hate,  would  taste  like  ambrosia.  But  I  am 
wandering  again,  in  the  fashion  of  old  people. 

My  father,  holding  these  ideas,  did  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  seek  safety  himself  and  leave  his  poor 
people  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd.  He  would 
gladly  have  sent  my  mother  and  myself  to  a  place 
of  safety,  but  my  mother  would  not  hear  of  leaving 
him,  nor  did  they  see  their  way  clear  to  part  with 
ine.  So  we  remained  together  till  I  was  fourteen 
years  old.  My  mother  instructed  me  in  all  sorts  of 
womanly  accomplishments,  and  from  Mrs.  Grace  I 
learned  to  do  wonderful  feats  of  needlework, 
especially  in  darning,  cut  work,  and  satin-stitch, 
which  in  my  turn  I  taught  to  Lucille,  with  my 
mother's  full  approbation,  for  she  said  I  learned  in 
teaching,  and  besides,  in  these  days  of  flight  and 
exile  it  behoved  every  one  to  practise  those  arts  by 
which  they  might  earn  their  bread  in  a  strange  land. 
These  lesson's  were  sometimes  very  pleasant  to  both 
of  us  ;  at  others  they  were  disturbed  by  that  spirit 
of  jealousy  which  had  always  been  Lucille 's  bane, 
and  which,  as  she  did  not  strive  to  conquer  it,  in- 
creased upon  her.  She  was  always  vexed  that  I 


The  Chevalier  s  Daug liter.  61 

should  do  anything  which  she  could  not,  and  if  she 
could  not  almost  directly  equal  or  excel  the  pattern 
1  set  before  her  she  would  abandon  the  work  in 
disgust,  sometimes  with  expressions  of  contempt, 
sometimes  with  an  outburst  of  temper  which  made 
me  fairly  afraid  of  her  for  the  time.  But  we 
always  made  up  our  quarrels  again,  for  she  was 
really  anxious  to  learn,  and  besides  that  I  think  she 
truly  loved  me  at  that  time.  Poor  Lucille  !  David 
I  seldom  saw.  He  had  gone,  with  the  full  appro- 
bation of  his  father  and  mine,  to  learn  the  trade  of 
a  ship-carpenter  at  Dieppe,  where  he  soon  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  skill.  His  holidays,  which 
were  few  and  far  between,  he  always  spent  at  home, 
and  he  never  came  without  bringing  presents  to  his 
family,  and  some  little  product  of  his  skill  and  in- 
genuity— a  reel,  a  little  casket  inlaid  with  ivory  or 
precious  woods,  or  a  small  frame  for  my  em- 
broidery. I  have  one  or  two  of  these  things  still. 

My  own  temptations  did  not  lie  toward  jealousy, 
which  was  one  reason  perhaps  that  I  had  so  much 
patience  with  Lucille  ;  for  I  have  observed  that 
people  usually  have  the  least  toleration  for  the 
faults  most  resembling  their  own.  I  was  always, 
from  my  earliest  years,  a  dreamy,  imaginative  child. 
I  heard  but  little  of  the  world — that  gay  world  in 
which  my  uncle  and  aunt  lived  at  court.  But  now 
and  then  I  got  a  peep  at  it  through  the  medium  of 
the  plays  and  tales  which  my  other  uncle  would  per- 
sist in  sending — for  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  1  had 
more  than  once  repeated  the  offence  of  stealing  and 


62  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

studying  some  of  these  books — and  this  same  gay 
world  had  great  charms  for  me.  I  had  been  less 
with  my  mother  than  usual  for  some  months,  for  she 
and  my  father  had  many  private  consultations  from 
which  I  was  excluded.  I  used  to  take  my  work  to 
the  top  of  the  old  tower  or  out  in  the  orchard,  and 
while  my  fingers  were  busy  with  my  stocking  or  my 
pattern  my  fancy  was  making  me  a  grand  demoiselle, 
and  leading  me  to  balls  and  gardens  and  all  the 
scenes  of  the  English  court.  Of  the  English  court, 
I  say,  for  my  wildest  dreams  at  that  time  never  led 
me  to  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  That  was  too 
closely  associated  with  the  dangers  and  inconven- 
iences of  our  condition  for  me  to  think  of  it  with 
anything  but  horror.  Thus  I  spent  many  hours 
worse  than  unprofitably.  Then  my  conscience 
would  be  aroused  by  some  Bible  reading  with  my 
mother  or  some  tale  of  suffering  heroism  from  my 
father,  and  I  wrould  cast  aside  my  dreams  and  re- 
turn to  those  religious  duties  which  at  other  times 
were  utterly  distasteful  to  me.  In  short,  I  was 
double-minded,  and  as  such  was  unstable  in  all  my 
ways. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 


TRUST   AND    DISTRUST. 

are  to  have  a  holiday  to-day,  Mrs. 
Vevette,"  was  Grace's  announcement  to 
me  one  fine  morning  somewhere  toward 
the  end  of  September.  "  Your  mother 
has  one  of  her  bad  headaches. ' ' 

"  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  !"  I  exclaimed,  thinking 
not  of  the  holiday  but  of  the  headache.  "Is  it 
very  bad,  Mrs.  Grace  ?" 

"  Very  bad  indeed,"  returned  the  lady-in-wait- 
ing, solemnly  shaking  her  head  ;  "I  have  seldom 
seen  her  worse.  I  have  been  up  with  her  half  the 
night.  You  must  be  very  quiet,  my  dear,  and  not 
rush  up  and  down  stairs,  or  drop  your  books,  or — ' 

"  May  I  go  up  to  the  farm  and  see  Mother 
Jeanne  ?"  I  asked,  breaking  in  upon  the  catalogue  of 
what  Grace  called  my  "  headlong  ways  ;"  "I  want 
to  teach  Lucille  that  new  lace-stitch,  and  I  dare  say 
Jeanne  won't  mind  if  I  do  make  a  little  noise,"  I 
added,  with  some  resentment.  Not,  of  course,  that 
I  wished  to  disturb  my  mother,  or  indeed  any  one 
else,  but  I  was  a  little  tired  of  this  same  catalogue, 
which  had  been  rehearsed  so  many  times. 


64  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  There  you  go  again,  breaking  right  into  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,"  said  Grace.  "  What  would 
your  mother  say  ?" 

"  Perhaps  she  would  say,  '  Don't  be  always  lec- 
turing the  child,  Grace,'  "  said  I  mischievously, 
quoting  some  words  I  had  overheard  from  my 
mother.  Then,  as  I  saw  by  her  rising  color  that 
she  was  really  angry,  I  threw  my  arms  round  her 
and  hugged  her. 

"  There,  don't  be  vexed,  Gracy  dear  ;  you  know 
I  would  not  disturb  maman  for  the  world.  But  I 
do  really  want  to  go  to  the  farm  very  much  to  teach 
Lucille  the  lace-stitch  you  showed  me  yesterday, 
and  to  see  the  new  kittens." 

"  Kittens  !  what  kittens  ?"  said  Grace,  who  was  a 
dear  lover  of  pussies  of  all  sorts. 

"  Why,  the  new  kittens.  Don't  you  remember 
the  beautiful  young  cats  that  David  brought  to  his 
mother  the  last  time  he  came  home  ?  One  of  them 
has  kittens,  and  Mother  Jeanne  says  I  may  have  my 
choice  of  them." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  go  by  all  means,  my  dear  ;  and  I  hope 
you  will  have  a  pleasant  day.  Only  be  sure  you  are 
at  home  before  "dark,  and  mind  you  don't  wait  till 
it  is  time  you  were  here  before  you  set  out.  And 
as  to  the  kitlings,  if  there  should  be  a  tortoise-shell 
or  a  dark  brindle,  T  would  choose  that,  especially  if 
it  have  a  white  face.  Such  cats  are  always  good- 
tempered  and  good  mousers." 

"I  believe  these  cats  are  all  white,"  said  I; 
"  the  mother  is  as  white  as  snow." 


The  Chevalier  s  Daiigkter.  65 

Grace's  face  was  shadowed  a  little. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  she  doubtfully. 
"  In  Cornwall  we  think  that  white  cats  bring  ill- 
luck.  My  poor  sister  had  a  beautiful  white  cat 
come  to  her,  and  that  very  night  she  broke  her 
china  jug,  and  the  ne:st  day  her  husband  fell  from 
the  tall  pear-tree  and  was  lamed  for  life." 

"  But  these  are  not  like  common  cats,  you  know," 
said  I,  suppressing  a  laugh  which  I  knew  would 
mortally  offend  Grace  and  perhaps  lose  me  my  holi- 
day. ' '  They  are  outlandish  cats,  with  long  hair  and 
bushy  tails.  I  should  think  that  would  be  differ- 
ent." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  I  would  think  about  it  a  little. 
However,  I  will  come  down  and  see  them  myself. ' ' 

I  tiptoed  through  my  mother's  room  into  my  own 
little  cell,  collected  my  working  things  into  the 
pretty  foreign  basket  which  David  had  brought  me 
the  last  time  he  came  home,  and  then,  kissing  my 
mother's  pale  cheek,  I  descended  the  etairs  softly, 
and  did  not  give  a  single  skip  till  I  was  beyond  the 
precincts  of  the  tower. 

"  How  full  of  notions  Grace  is,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"  I  wonder  if  all  the  Cornish  people  are  like  that."* 
(N.B.  If  a  hare  had  run  across  my  own  path,  or  I 
had  heard  a  crow  on  my  left  hand,  I  dare  say  I 
should  have  turned  back  from  my  expedition.) 
"  But  I  mean  to  have  the  kitten  in  spite  of  her.  As 
though  I  would  give  up  a  beautiful  long-haired 
white  cat  for  such  a  fancy  as  that !" 

*  They  are,  even  to  this  day. — L.  8, 


66  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

I  did  not  hasten  on  my  way,  for  it  was  early,  and 
I  found  my  walk  so  pleasant  that  I  had  no  desire  to 
shorten  it.  The  bramble-berries  and  filberts  that 
were  ripening  by  the  sides  of  the  lane  had  great 
•attractions  for  me.  There  were  late  autumn  flow- 
ers to  gather,  and  lizards  to  watch  as  they  ran  to 
and  fro  on  the  walls  or  sunned  their  gilded  sides 
on  a  broad  flat  stone,  vanishing  like  a  shadow  when 
one  drew  near.  A  great  wind  had  blown  the  day 
before  and  thrown  down  many  apples  from  the 
trees  that  overhung  the  lane.  I  filled  my  pocket 
with  some  ripe  golden  pippins,  and  walked  on  eating 
one  till  I  drew  near  the  place  where  the 'high way  to 
Avranches,  such  as  it  was,  crossed  our  lane.  This 
was  a  favorite  resting-place,  since  it  commanded  a 
glorious  view  of  sea  and  shore  and  the  great 
fortress-monastery.  There  was  a  kind  of  crag  or 
projecting  rock  some  thirty  feet  high,  round  which 
the  road  wound,  and  which,  while  it  presented  a 
perpendicular  face  to  the  highway,  was  easily 
ascended  by  an  active  person  from  the  side  of  the 
lane. 

"  I  wonder  whether  they  are  gathering  the  vraic, ' 
I  said  to  myself.      "  I  should  think  a  great  quantity 
must  have  come  ashore  after  the  wind  last  night.     I 
mean  to  climb  up  and  see."  * 

I  climbed  lightly  up  the  rude  rocky  steps,  but 

*  The  vraic  or  varech  is  the  seaweed,  which  is  very  abun- 
dant on  this  coast,  and  much  esteemed  for  manure.  It  is  reg- 
ularly harvested  in  spring  and  autumn,  but  may  be  gathered  at 
any  time. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  67 

started  as  I  came  upon  Lucille,  who  was  sitting 
upon  the  dry  moss  which  covered  like  a  soft  carpet 
the  top  of  the  rock.  She  was  wrapped  closely  in 
her  long  black  cloak,  the  hood  of  which  was  drawn 
over  her  head,  somewhat  to  the  detriment  of  her 
clean  starched  cap.  Her  unfailing  companion,  the 
distaff,  was  in  her  girdle,  but  the  spindle  lay  idle 
beside  her,  though  she  seemed  to  have  cleared  a  flat 
place  especially  for  it  to  dance  upon.  Her  hands 
were  folded  over  her  knee,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  high  road,  which  from  this  elevated  point 
could  be  traced  all  the  way  to  Avranches.  I  saw 
in  a  moment  that  she  was  in  one  of  her  moods,  but 
I  was  in  too  high  spirits  with  my  walk  and  my  hol- 
iday to  mind  that  ;  and  as  she  did  not  seem  to  hear 
my  approach  I  put  my  two  hands  over  her  eyes, 
saying,  in  the  words  of  our  child's  game,  "  Guess 
whose  fingers  are  all  these. ' ' 

"  Vevette,  how  you  startled  me  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, rather  angrily  ;  and  then,  recovering  her- 
self, "  How  did  you  come  here  ?" 

"On  my  feet,  since  I  have  no  wings,"  I  an- 
swered, sitting  down  beside  her  on  the  dry  moss. 
"  Maman  gave  me  a  whole  holiday  because  she  has 
a  headache,  and  I  thought  I  would  come  down  and 
teach  you  my  new  lace  stitches.  It  is  well  I  took 
a  fancy  to  climb  up  here,  or  I  should  have  missed 
you.  But  now,  tell  me  how  came  you  here  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  a  holiday  as  well  as  yourself," 
answered  Lucille,  in  a  tone  which  had  no  pleasure 
in  it.  "  Aunt  Denise  has  come  up  from  Granville 


68  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

to  see  my  mother,  and  maman  said  I  might  have  a 
play-day  too,  and  go  to  see  Marie  Lebrun  if  1  liked. 
But  I  don't  care  about  going.  I  know  they  only 
sent  me  away  because  they  have  secrets  to  talk 
about  which  they  don't  want  me  to  hear." 

' '  "Well,  why  need  you  mind  ?"  I  asked.  ' '  Maman 
often  says  to  me,  '  Run  away,  petite,  I  wish  to  say 
something  to  Grace, '  and  I  never  mind  it  a  bit. 
Of  course  grown  people  have  things  to  talk  about 
which  they  don't  want  children  to  hear.  Why 
should  you  care  ?" 

"  But  I  do  care,"  said  Lucille,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  "  I  am  not  a  child  like  you.  I  am 
three  years  older,  and  I  do  think  they  might  trust 
me." 

"  It  is  not  that  they  do  not  trust  you,  silly  one," 
I  returned,  a  little  out  of  patience  with  the  mood  I 
could  not  comprehend.  "  As  I  tell  you,  there  are 
things  to  be  talked  about  by  grown  people  which 
girls  do  not  understand  and  ought  not  to  know. 
Mrs.-  Grace  has  told  me  that  a  dozen  times.  What 
is  the  use  of  minding  ?  We  don't  understand,  and 
there  is  the  end.  Some  time  we  shall,  I  suppose. ' ' 

Lucille  did  not  answer.  She  fixed  her  eyes  once 
more  on  the  highway,  and  I  let  mine  wander  off 
over  the  sands  and  the  shore  where  people,  looking 
like  little  black  ants,  were  busily  collecting  the 
precious  seaweed,  to  Mount  St.  Michael,  whose 
turrets  shone  brightly  in  the  sun. 

"  I  wish  I  had  wings,"  said  I  at  last.  "  How  I 
should  like  to  fly  over  the  sands  and  alight  on  the 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  69 

top  of  the  mount  yonder,  where  the  great  gilded 
angel  used  to  stand  looking  over  land  and  seas.  I 
wonder  whether  he  got  tired  of  his  perch  and  flew 
away  some  night. ' ' 

"  You  should  not  speak  so  of  the  holy  angels. 
It  is  not  right,"  said  Lucille  gravely. 

"  I  was  not  speaking  of  the  angel,  hut  of  his  im- 
age," said  I ;  "  that  is  quite  another  thing.  Then 
I  would  spread  my  wings  and  travel  over  to  the 
islands  yonder,  and  then  to  England,  where  my 
uncles  live." 

"  And  get  shot  for  a  strange  water-fowl,"  said 
Lucille,  apparently  diverted  for  the  moment,  and 
laughing  at  my  fancy.  "  Then  you  would  be 
stuffed  and  set  up  to  be  gazed  at  for  sixpence  a 
head,  and  that  would  be  more  tiresome  than  sitting 
at  your  embroidery." 

"  Yes,  I  don't  think  I  should  like  it  at  all.  Let 
me  take  the  distaff,  Lucille.  I  have  not  spun  any 
thread  in  a  long  time.  What  beautiful  fine  flax  !" 

"  Yes,  it  is  some  that  my  aunt  brought  me.  She 
got  it  of  a  sliip-captain  who  came  from  foreign 
parts.  Take  care  you  don't  break  my  thread." 

We  chatted  on  indifferent  subjects  a  while,  and 
Lucille  seemed  to  have  recovered  her  good-humor, 
when  I  inadvertently  disturbed  it  again. 

"Martin  said  he  met  your  father  coming  from 
Avranches  yesterday.  What  took  him  so  far  from 
home  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  they  never  tell  me  anything," 
answered  Lucille,  her  face  clouding. 


70  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  There  might  be  a  very  good  reason  for  his  not 
telling  you,"  1  remarked  in  a  low  tone.  "  If  his 
journey  was  about  the  Religion  it  might  be  a  great 
deal  better  for  you  to  be  able  to  say  you  did  not 
know.  And  I  dare  say  it  was,  for  my  father  has 
been  away  a  great  deal  of  late. ' ' 

"  Oh,  the  Religion — always  the  Religion  !"  said 
Lucille  between  her  teeth  ;  "  I  hate  the  very  name 
of  the  Religion." 

"  Lucille,  how  dare  you  ?"  I  gasped,  rather  than 
spoke.  I  was  too  shocked  to  say  more. 

"Well,  1  do,"  she  returned  vehemently.  "It 
spoils  everything.  It  separates  families  and  neigh- 
bors, shuts  us  up  just  to  our  own  little  selves,  and 
cuts  us  off  from  everything  that  is  pleasant.  Jen- 
nette  Maury  can  go  to  the  Sunday  fetes  and  the 
dances  on  feast  days  under  the  great  chestnut,  but 
I  must  stay  at  home  and  read  a  musty  book,  because 
I  am  of  the  Religion.  Other  people  live  in  peace, 
and  nobody  interferes  with  them.  We  live  with  a 
sword  hung  over  our  heads,  and  our  daily  path  is 
like  that  over  the  Greve  yonder — likely  to  swallow 
us  up  any  time.  And  what  do  we  gain  by  it  in  this 
world,  I  should  like  to  know  ?" 

"  What  should  we  lose  in  the  next  world  if  we 
deserted  it  ?"  I  asked,  finding  my  voice  at  last. 

"  I  am  not  talking  of  deserting  it.  I  am  no 
Judas,  though  they  seem  to  think  I  am  by  the  way 
they  treat  me — never  telling  me  anything.  But  1 
don't  see  why  we  should  not  have  kept  to  the  ways 
of  our  fathers,  and  saved  all  this  trouble." 


Tke  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  7  i 

"  WE  DO  keep  to  the  faith  of  our  fathers,"  said 
I,  repeating  the  proud  boast  of  the  Vaudois,  which 
1  had  long  ago  learned  by  heart.  "  Our  church 
never  was  corrupted  by  Rome,  and  did  not  need 
reforming.  But,  Lucille,  what  \vould  your  father 
and  mother  say  to  such  words  ?" 

"  I  should  never  say  such  words  to  them,"  an- 
swered Lucille,  "  and  I  am  foolish  to  say  them  to 
you.  I  suppose,  however,  you  will  go  and  repeat 
them  to  every  one,  and  let  the  world  say  how  much 
better  and  more  religious  is  the  heiress  of  the  Tour 
d'Antin  than  poor  Lucille  Sablot." 

"  Lucille,  you  know  better,"  I  answered  indig- 
nantly ;  "  but  I  see  you  don't  want  anything  of 
me,  so  I  shall  go  home  again,  as  you  say  Mother 
Jeanne  is  busy."  And  gathering  up  my  basket 
and  laying  down  the  distaff  in  Lucille' s  lap,  I  rose 
to  depart,  though  I  trembled  so  much  with  excite- 
ment and  indignation  that  I  could  hardly  stand. 
Lucille  looked  at  me  in  surprise,  for  in  our  ordinary 
quarrels  I  grew  cool  as  she  grew  angry,  and  vice 
versd. 

"  Don't  go,  Yevette.  I  ought  not  to  have 
spoken  so.  I  did  not  half  mean  it,  but  I  am  so 
very,  very  unhappy."  As  she  spoke  she  hid  her 
face  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  and  sobs.  I  sat 
down  again,  knowing  from  experience  that  when 
she  recovered  from  her  crying  fit  her  bad  mood 
would  be  gone  for  that  day.  So  it  proved.  After 
sobbing  a  long  time  she  wiped  her  eyes  and  made  a 
great  effort  to  compose  herself. 


72  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  cross,"  said  she  ;  "  but  1 
am  so  unhappy.  There  is  so  much  that  I  cannot 
understand.  Why  should  you  be  the  heiress  of 
D'Antin  and  I  only  a  poor  farmer's  daughter? 
Why  should  you  learn  music  and  English  and  dress 
in  silk,  while  I  wear  homespun  and  tend  sheep,  and 
come  and  go  at  everybody's  call  ?  Why  should  our 
enemies  triumph  and  eat  us  up  like  bread,  and  live 
in  all  sorts  of  luxury,  while  we  are  poor  and  trodden 
down  like  the  mire  in  the  streets,  and  our  Master 
never  put  forth  a  hand  to  help  us  ?  We  give  up 
everything  for  him,  and  he  lets  us  be  beaten  on 
every  side,  and  gives  us  nothing  but  promises — 
promises  for  another  world,  from  which  nobody  has 
come  back  to  tell  us  anything.  No,  I  don't  un- 
derstand it." 

Lucille  spoke  with  a  fire  and  passion  compared 
to  which  her  former  vehemence  was  nothing.  I 
had  never  thought  of  these  things — never  dreamed 
of  questioning  anything  that  was  taught  me.  In- 
deed, I  believe  I  had  been  too  full  of  dreams  to 
think  at  all.  I  was  stricken  dumb  before  her  at 
first,  but  as  she  gazed  at  me  with  her  dark  eyes  like 
sombre  flames,  1  felt  I  must  say  something,  so  I 
gave  the  only  answer  that  occurred  to  me — the  only 
one  indeed  that  I  have  ever  found. 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God,  Lucille,  and  he  must 
know  best." 

Lucille  muttered  something  which  I  did  not 
quite  hear. 

"  And  besides,  he  does  help  us,"  I  added,  gath- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  73 

ering  courage.  "  Just  think  how  all  the  martyrs 
have  been  helped  to  stand  firm,  and  what  joys  they 
have  felt  even  at  the  galleys  and  in  dark  dungeons, 
where  they  had  hardly  room  to  breathe." 

"  I  know  they  say  so,"  said  Lucille  ;  "  but  tell 
me,  Yevette,  have  you  experienced  any  of  these 
wonderful  joys.  Because  I  know  1  never  did." 

I  did  not  know  exactly  what  to  answer  to  this 
question.  In  fact,  in  those  days  my  conscience  was 
in  that  uneasy  state  in  which  it  always  must  be  with 
any  half -hearted  person.  No,  I  could  not  say  that 
my  religion  was  any  comfort  to  me,  and  I  hastened 
to  change  the  conversation. 

"  Anyhow,  Lucille,  1  don't  think  you  would  be 
any  happier  if  we  were  to  change  places.  You 
would  be  lectured  arid  ordered  about,  and  sent  out 
of  the  way  a  great  deal  more  than  you  are  now,  and 
you  would  not  have  nearly  as  much  time  to  yourself. 
I  believe,  after  all,  it  is  more  in  being  contented  than 
anything  else.  Look  at  Gran'mere  Luchon.  She 
has  as  little  as  any  one  I  know — living  down  by  the 
shore  in  that  dark  smoky  little  hut  with  her  two 
little  grandchildren,  and  supporting  them  and  herself 
with  her  net-making  and  mending  and  her  spinning. 
And  yet  she  is  happy.  She  is  always  singing  over 
her  work,  and  I  never  heard  her  make  a  complaint. " 

"  She  is  not  there  any  more,"  said  Lucille. 
"  The  new  cure  ordered  her  to  go  to  mass,  and  be- 
cause she  would  not  he  has  taken  the  children  away 
and  handed  them  over  to  the  nuns,  and  nobody 
knows  what,  has  become  of  the  old  woman." 


74  I  he  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  The  wretches  !"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Hush  !"  said  Lucille  ;  "  don't  speak  so  loud  ; 
nobody  knows  who  may  be  listening.  I  hate  living 
so — in  such  constraint  and  danger  all  the  time.  It 
is  odious." 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more,"  said  I. 
"  I  have  some  news  for  you.  My  cousin,  Andrew 
Corbet,  from  England,  is  coming  to  visit  us.  Will 
it  not  seem  odd  to  have  a  cousin  ?" 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  Lucille,  making  an  effort  to 
throw  off  her  moodiness.  "  I  have  a  plenty  of 
them,  you  know.  When  do  you  expect  him  ?" 

"  Next  week,  perhaps  ;  the  time  is  not  set." 

"  What  is  he  like  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  have  never  seen  him.  He 
is  about  twenty  years  old,  and  has  been  educated  at 
a  great  college  in  England,  so  I  suppose  he  is  like 
other  young  gentlemen.  Come,  let  us  eat  some  of 
Mrs.  Grace's  cakes  and  bonbons,  and  then  I  will 
show  you  my  new  stitch.  Grace  gave  me  a  nice 
basket,  because  she  said  we  might  like  to  make  a 
little  feast  under  the  trees. ' ' 

Lucille  had  something  too — a  bottle  of  milk  and 
some  wheaten  bread  which  she  had  set  out  to  carry 
to  Gran'mere  Luchon,  when  she  heard  of  the  mis- 
fortune which  had  befallen  the  poor  woman.  We 
grew  quite  merry  over  our  little  feast,  and  the  lesson 
in  needlework  went  on  prosperously  afterward. 

"  You  have  caught  it  beautifully,"  said  1 ; 
"  Mrs.  Grace  would  say  that  you  excelled  your 
pattern.  But  what  are  you  looking  at  ?"  For 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  75 

Lucille  liad  droped  her  work  and  was  gazing  intently 
in  the  direction  of  Avranches.  I  turned  my  eyes  the 
same  way  and  beheld  a  procession  coming  up  the 
road — of  what  sort  1  could  not  at  first  discover. 
There  was  a  cross-bearer  and  two  or  three 
banners  ;  then  a  sight  dreaded  by  every  Huguenot 
child  in  France — the  Host  carried  under  a  fine 
canopy — and  then  came  a  dozen  or  so  of  donkeys, 
each  led  by  a  man  and  bearing  a  woman  dressed  in 
black,  with  a  white  scapular  and  long  black  veil. 
"  They  are  the  nuns  coming  to  take  possession  of 
the  hospital,"  said  Lucille.  "It  has  been  all  re- 
paired and  fitted  up  anew,  and  they  are  to  have  a 
school  and  teach  lace-making  and  embroidery. ' ' 

"  Lucille,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  I  exclaimed  ;  for 
she  had  risen  and  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  rock  to 
have  a  better  view.  "  They  will  see  you.  Come 
down  here  behind  the  bushes  till  they  are  past. ' ' 

Lucille  obeyed  rather  unwillingly,  as  I  thought. 
We  peeped  through  the  bushes  as  the  procession 
advanced,  and  had  a  good  view  of  the  nuns.  There 
were  ten  of  them,  riding  with  eyes  cast  down  and 
hands  folded  in  their  large  sleeves.  One  or  two  of 
them  were  very  pretty,  and  all  had  a  ladylike  look. 
Last  came  the  two  little  grandchildren  of  poor  Mere 
Luchon.  The  youngest,  a  mere  baby,  was  sucking 
a  lump  of  gingerbread,  apparently  quite  content  ; 
but  the  sobs  and  tear-stained  face  of  the  other  told 
a  different  story.  She  was  seven  years  old,  and 
was  already  a  great  help  and  comfort  to  the  old 
woman.  As  she  passed^  she  raised  her  streaming 


76  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

eyes  as  if  imploring  pity.  My  blood  boiled  at  the 
sight,  and  if  I  could  have  commanded  the  lightning 
from  heaven,  that  procession  would  have  gone  no 
farther.  It  was  closed  by  a  number  of  villagers,  all 
telling  their  beads,  some  with  a  great  show  of  de- 
votion, others  languidly  and  carelessly  enough.  The 
new  cure  came  last  of  all.  He  was  a  small,  thin, 
sharp-faced  man,  with  a  cruel  mouth,  and  eyes  that 
seemed  to  see  everything  at  once.  lie  was  cer- 
tainly a  great  contrast  to  poor  Father  Jean,  who 
used  to  go  about  with  his  deep  pockets  filled  with 
bonbons,  which  he  distributed  to  Catholic  and  Prot- 
estant children  alike. 

"  The  wretches  !  the  murderous  brigands  !"  said 
I  between  my  teeth.  "  Oh,  if  I  could  kill  them 
all  !  The  vile  kidnappers  !  Oh,  why  does  the 
Lord  suffer  such  things  ?" 

' '  That  is  what  I  ask, ' '  said  Lucille  ;  ' '  why  should 
they  be  so  prospered  and  have  so  much  power  if 
the  Lord  is  not  on  their  side  ?  As  to  these  children, 
I  don't  know  that  I  pity  them  so  very  much.  The 
old  woman  could  not  have  lived  long,  and  now  they 
are  sure  of  support  and  a  good  education.  I  think 
the  nuns  are  very  kind-looking  ladies,  for  my  part. 
And  if  they  were  right  after  all — if  one's  salvation 
does  depend  upon  being  a  Roman  Catholic — then 
they  are  right  in  forcing  people  to  become  so." 

"  Why  did  not  our  Lord  and  his  apostles  force  all 
the  Jews  to  become  Christians  ?"  I  demanded  hotly 
enough.  "  He  said  he  had  only  to  ask  to  receive 
more  than  twelve  legions  of  angels.  Why  did  not 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  77 

he  do  it,  and  shut  up  all  those  people  who  did  not 
believe  on  him,  or  put  them  to  death,  if  that  is  the 
right  way  ?" 

"  He  said  his  kingdom  was  not  of  this  world,  else 
would  his  servants  fight,"  answered  Lucille. 

"  Then  the  kingdom  which  is  of  this  world,  and 
whose  servants  do  fight  and  oppress,  is  not  his,"  I 
answered,  for  I  could  reason  well  enough  when  I 
was  roused  from  my  day-dreams. 

"  We  ought  to  be  going,"  said  Lucille,  abruptly 
changing  the  subject.  "  The  supper  will  be  ready, 
and  my  father  will  be  angry  if  I  am  not  there.  I 
am  to  be  kept  to  rules  as  if  I  were  no  more  than 
five  years  old." 

Jeanne  welcomed  me  with  her  usual  affection, 
but  her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and  she  was 
evidently  absent-minded.  I  told  her  what  we  had 
seen. 

"  Yes,  I  have  had  the  story  from  my  sister," 
said  Jeanne,  her  eyes  overflowing  as  she  spoke. 
"  The  poor  old  woman  !  happily  it  cannot  be  long 
in  the  course  of  nature  before  she  goes  to  her  rest  ; 
but  my  heart  aches  for  the  little  ones.  My  chil- 
dren, you  must  be  doubly  careful.  This  new  priest 
is  not  like  the  old  one — he  will  leave  us  no  peace. 
You  must  take  care  never  even  to  go  near  the 
church,  or  stop  to  look  on  at  any  of  their  doings. 
Perhaps  a  way  of  escape  may  be  opened  to  us  be- 
fore long.  It  would  indeed  be  hard  to  leave  our 
home  and  go  among  strangers,  but  exile  with  lib- 


78  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

erty  of  worship  would  be  better  than  living  in  such 
constant  fear." 

"  Put  thy  trust  in  God,  my  Jeanne,''  said  Father 
Simon.  "  We  are  all  in  his  hands.  We  must  re- 
member that  the  church  has  never  been  promised 
anything  in  this  world  but  tribulation  and  the  cross. 
The  crown  is  to  come  hereafter.  Now  let  us  think 
of  something  else.  Mamselle  Yevette,  will  you 
come  and  help  to  gather  the  apples  on  your  own 
tree  ?  They  are  quite  ready,  and  I  will  carry  them 
up  for  you  when  you  go  home. " 

I  had  been  grave  quite  as  long  as  I  liked,  and 
was  very  ready  to  enjoy  the  apple-picking  from  my 
own  particular  tree  of  golden  Jeannetons,  which 
had  been  solemnly  planted  when  I  was  born,  and 
now  hung  loaded  with  fruit.  Never  were  such 
apples  as  those,  I  am  sure.  I  wonder  whether  the 
tree  is  still  in  bearing  ?  It  must  be  old  and  moss- 
grown  by  this  time,  if  it  has  not  been  cut  down. 
Jeanne  made  us  a  supper  of  fresh  pan-cakes, 
galette,  fruit,  and  rich  cream  cheese,  and  \vhen 
I  went  home  Father  Simon  shouldered  his  hotte  * 
and  carried  a  famous  load  of  beautiful  apples  up  to 
the  tower. 

I  found  my  mother  much  better,  and  able  to  wel- 
come me,  and  to  hear  all  I  had  to  tell  her.  I  hesi- 
tated about  repeating  my  conversation  with  Lucille 
on  the  rock,  but  my  mind  had  been  so  disturbed 


*  A  kind  of  deep,  roomy  basket,  made  to  be  carried  on  the 
shoulders. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  79 

that  at  last  I  though  best  to  do  so,  hoping  to  have 
my  doubts  laid  at  rest. 

"  You  gave  the  right  answer,  my  little  one,"  said 
my  mother  when  I  had  finished.  "It  is  the  will 
of  God.  Remember  that  he  has  never  promised 
his  children  temporal  prosperity.  '  In  the  world  ye 
shall  have  tribulation, '  are  his  own  words.  Yet  he 
does  give  his  children  many  pleasures.  There  are 
beautiful  flowers  and  fair  fruits  growing  even  by 
the  side  of  the  strait  and  narrow  way,  but  we 
must  not  go  out  of  the  way  to  seek  them.  Neither 
must  we  be  discouraged  when  the  path  leads  over 
rocks  and  thorns,  or  even  through  marshes  and 
quicksands  ;  but  remember  that  our  dear  Lord  has 
trodden  every  step  before  us,  and  is  waiting  to 
receive  us  at  the  end." 

Much  more  she  said,  in  the  same  wise  and  gentle 
strain,  and  at  last  sent  me  to  bed  feeling  somewhat 
comforted.  The  night  was  warm,  and  my  door 
was  left  ajar  for  air.  I  had  hardly  fallen  asleep,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  when  I  was  waked  by  voices,  and 
heard  my  mother  say, 

"  I  do  not  like  what  she  says  about  Lucille.  I 
fear  the  girl  has  been  tampered  with.  Perhaps  we 
should  warn  her  parents. ' ' 

"  We  will  think  about  that,"  said  my  father. 
"  Ah,  my  Marguerite,  if  you  and  the  little  one 
were  but  in  safety— 

' '  Do  not  ask  me  to  leave  you,  Armand — not 
yet,"  said  my  mother,  clasping  her  hands.  "  If 
we  could  but  send  the  child  home  to  mv  sister  I 


So  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

should   be   at   ease.      Could   we   not   do   it,  when 
Andrew  comes  ?" 

'k  We  will  consider  of  it,"  answered  my  father. 
"  And  now,  my  Pearl,  let  us  betake  ourselves  to 
prayer." 

The  murmured  sound  of  the  prayer  sent  me  to 
sleep,  and  I  heard  no  more,  but  1  turned  Lucille's 
words  over  in  my  mind  with  a  vague  uneasiness 
many  times  during  the  next  few  days.  I  was  des- 
tined to  remember  them  for  long  afterward. 

The  next  day  was  made  memorable  by  an  un- 
lucky accident.  Mrs.  Grace  was  standing  in  the 
door  of  my  room  (which  I  have  said  was  raised 
several  steps),  lecturing  me  in  her  usual  prim  fash- 
ion concerning  certain  untidinesses  which  she  had 
discovered  about  my  toilette-table,  when,  suddenly 
stepping  backward,  she  fell  down  the  stairs,  bruising 
herself  and  spraining  her  ankle  very  badly.  We 
dared  not  send  for  a  surgeon.  There  was  an  old 
man  at  Avranches  who  was  very  skilful,  and  with 
whom  we  had  always  been  on  good  terms,  though 
he  was  a  Roman  Catholic  ;  but  he  had  lately  taken 
a  young. assistant  (or  rather  had  been  given  one,  for 
•.ve  all  believed  the  young  man  had  been  placed  as  a 
spy  over  the  old  one),  -and  should  it  be  known  that 
we  had  a  sick  person  in  the  house  we  were  in  dan- 
ger of  being  invaded  by  the  priests,  striving  to 
force  or  coax  the  sick  person  into  a  recantation. 
Happily  my  father  hnd  a  pietty  good  practical 
knowledge  of  snnrrry,  and  both  my  mother  and  Mrs. 
Grace  herself  were  strong  in  the  virtues  and  uses  of 


Tke  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  8 1 

herbs  and  simples.  Mrs.  Grace  was  presently  put  to 
bed  and  her  ankle  bandaged.  She  was  in  great  pain, 
but  the  pain  was  little  or  nothing  compared  to  the 
worry  of  helplessness,  housekeeping  cares,  and  the 
necessity  of  being  waited  upon  instead  of  waiting 
upon  others.  Truth  to  say,  she  was  but  a  trouble- 
some charge.  My  dear  mother,  who  had  borne 
this  same  cross  of  helplessness  for  many  a  year, 
preached  patience  in  her  gentle  way.  Mrs.  Grace 
assented  to  all  she  said,  called  herself  a  miserable, 
rebellious  sinner,  and  the  next  minute  fretted  more 
than  ever  :  over  that  careless  Marie,  who  would  be 
sure  to  burn  the  marmalade,  or  that  stupid  coward  of 
a  Julienne,  who  would  not  venture  up  to  the  top  of 
the  tower  to  bring  in  the  drying  fruit  lest  she  should 
see  the  white  chevalier.  For  after  a  long  season  of 
absence — for  what  ghostly  purpose,  who  should  say  ? 
— the  white  chevalier  had  again  been  seen  walking  on 
the  battlements  of  the  round  tower,  or  passing  the 
window  of  his  wretched  and  guilty  wife's  apart- 
ment. 

11  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  the  marmalade, 
my  poor  Grace,"  said  my  mother,  with  a  somewhat 
woeful  smile.  "  Who  knows  whether  we  shall  be 
alive  to  eat  it,  or  whether  all  our  stores  may  not 
fall  into  the  hands  of  onr  enemies  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  spice  the  marmalade  for 
them  !"  exclaimed  Grace,  quite  overcome  by  the 
idea  of  her  dainties  being  devoured  by  the  Papisties, 
as  she  always  called  them. 

"  And  as  to  the  tower,"  continued  my  mother, 


82  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  I  think  myself  the  maids  may  as  well  keep  away 
from  it.  If  the  white  chevalier  and  his  wife  should 
really  have  been  seen,  it  is  just  as  well  not  to  nin 
any  risks. " 

"  But  whom  then  will  yon  trust  ?"  asked  Grace, 
with  a  startled  look. 

My  mother  put  to  her  lips  a  fresh  rose  she  had 
brought  in  her  hand,  and  glanced  at  me,  and  Grace 
said  no  more.  I  was  not  annoyed,  as  Lucille  would 
have  been,  for  I  had  become  accustomed  to  such 
hints  ;  and  with  a  passing  wonder  as  to  whether  my 
mother  really  believed  in  the  white  chevalier,  I 
plunged  into  my  dear  "  Arcadia, "  and  forgot  all 
earthly  cares  in  the  somewhat  long-winded  trials  of 
the  virtuous  Parthenia.  But  I  was  destined  to  hear 
more  of  the  matter. 

That  very  evening,  about  an  hour  before  sunset, 
my  father  asked  me  to  walk  with  him.  This  was  a 
great  honor,  for  in  my  youth  children  were  by  no 
means  so  familiar  with  their  parents  as  they  are 
now.  Whether  the  change  be  for  the  better  or  no 
depends  upon  the  parents  a  good  deal.  We  walked 
out  by  the  lane,  across  a  field,  and  through  the 
loaded  orchard  bending  with  golden  and  ruddy 
fruit,  some  of  which  was  already  gathered  for  the 
cider-mill.  The  low  sun  shone  under  the  branches, 
and  turned  the  heaps  of  apples  to  heaps  of  gold  and 
rubies.  It  was  very  still,  but  the  tide  was  high,  and 
came  in  over  the  distant  sands  with  a  hollow  roar, 
which  my  father  said  portended  a  storm.  He  spoke 
little  till  we  reached  a  little  heathy  eminence 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  83 

crowned  with  one  of  the  monuments  of  ancient  date 
BO  common  in  Normandy  and  Brittany.  From  this 
point  we  had  a  view  for  a  long  distance  around,  and 
nobody  could  come  near  us  without  being  observed. 
My  father  sat  down  on  one  of  the  fallen  stones, 
and  motioned  me  to  sit  beside  him. 

"  My  daughter,''  said  he,  taking  my  hand  in  his 
with  a  certain  solemnity,  "  you  are  now  almost  a 
woman,  and  old  enough  to  be  admitted  into  the 
knowledge  of  your  father's  secrets.  But  such 
knowledge  is  full  of  danger.  Are  you  brave,  my 
child  ?  Are  you  a  worthy  descendant  of  those 
valiant  Provencal  and  Yaudois  women  who  hazarded 
their  lives  for  the  faith  ?  Consider,  my  Vevette  ! 
Suppose  you  were  required  to  go  into  the  upper 
floor  of  the  old  tower,  even  to  the  ladies'  bower,  at 
night ;  would  you  be  afraid  to  do  it  ?  Consider, 
and  give  me  an  answer." 

All  my  better  self  rose  up  at  this  appeal.  I  con- 
sidered a  moment,  and  then  answered  firmly, 

"  I  might  be  afraid,  but  I  would  do  it,  if  it  were 
my  duty." 

"  There  spoke  a  true  Corbet  woman  !"  said  my 
father,  smiling  kindly  on  me  and  pressing  the  hand 
which  he  held.  "  '  MY  DUTY  ! '  Let  that  be  your 
motto,  as  it  is  that  of  your  mother's  house,  and  you 
will  not  go  far  wrong.  Now  listen  while  I  impart 
to  you  a  weighty  secret.  But  let  us  first  make  sure 
that  there  are  no  eavesdroppers." 

My  father  raised  himself  from  the  fallen  stone 
and  looked  all  around,  but  no  one  was  in  sight,  and 


84  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

the  sparse  heath  and  short  grass  could  not  hide  any- 
thing so  large  as  a  child  of  a  year  old.  He  even 
parted  the  brambles  and  wild  vines  and  looked  in- 
side the  monument  (which  was  one  of  those  made 
of  three  upright  stones  with  a  slab  laid  over  the 
top),  but  found  nothing  worse  than  a  pair  of  young 
owls  and  their  mother,  which  were  terribly  discon- 
certed by  his  scrutiny,  and  hissed  and  snapped 
valiantly.  Meantime  I  waited  with  anxious  curi- 
osity, though  I  had  a  guess  of  what  was  coming. 

"  I  have  certain  intelligence,"  said  he,  speaking 
in  a  low  voice,  "  that  one  of  our  best  and  oldest 
pastors,  Monsieur  Bertheau,  who  has,  at  the  risk  of 
his  life,  visited  and  comforted  many  of  our  afflicted 
brethren  in  Charenton  and  elsewhere,  is  now  flying 
from  his  enemies,  and  will  arrive  at  this  place  some 
time  to-night.  He  must  be  lodged  in  the  old  tower 
till  the  period  of  spring  tides,  when  I  shall  hope  to 
procure  a  passage  for  him  to  Jersey,  or  to  England 
itself.  Grace,  who  has  usually  taken  charge  of 
such  fugitives,  is  now  disabled.  I  must  be 
away  this  night,  and  your  mother  is  unable  to  do 
what  is  needful ;  besides  that,  her  absence  from  her 
room  might  excite  suspicion.  Mat  hew  grows  old 
and  forgetful,  and  I  dare  not  trust  any  of  the  other 
servants.  Dare  you,  my  daughter,  undertake  to 
meet  this  venerable  man  in  the  niins  of  the  chapel 
to-night,  and  lead  him  by  the  secret  passage  to  the 
room  at  the  top  of  the  tower,  which  has  been  pre- 
pared for  him  2" 


The  CJicvalicrs  Daughter.  85 

"  Yes,  my  father,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  how  shall 
I  know  the  way  ?" 

"  I  will  give  you  directions  which  will  lead  you 
to  the  entrance  of  the  passage.  Turn  to  your  right 
after  that,  and  you  cannot  miss  your  way.  When 
the  good  man  is  in  safety  you  can  come  directly  to 
your  mother's  room  by  another  passage,  which  I 
will  also  indicate  to  you.  But,  my  child,  I  must 
not  conceal  from  you  that  there  is  danger  in  this 
trust.  Should  you  be  discovered  by  any  of  our 
enemies  in  giving  help  to  this  good  old  man,  your 
life  or  your  liberty  must  be  the  forfeit." 

"  I  know  it,  my  father,"  1  answered  ;  "but  if 
it  is  my  duty,  I  can  do  it.  Besides,  there  is  daiynr 
anyhow." 

"  That  is  true,  my  child.  He  that  saveth  his  life 
is  as  like  to  lose  it  as  he  that  layeth  it  down  for  the 
Lord's  sake  and  the  Gospels." 

Then  my  father  broke  down,  clasped  me  in  his 
arms,  and  wept  over  me  in  the  way  that  is  so  terri- 
ble to  see  in  a  strong  man. 

"  My  child,  my  Marguerite's  only  child  !  my 
treasure  !  and  must  I  lay  down  thy  young  life  also  ? 
Oh,  Lord,  how  long,  how  long  !" 

Presently,  however,  he  composed  himself,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  my  head  he  most  solemnly  dedi- 
cated me  to  God  and  his  service,  as  the  most  pre- 
cious thing  he  had  to  give.  That  dedication  has 
never  ceased  to  affect  my  life,  even  when  I  have 
strayed  the  farthest. 

We  returned  home  slowly,  after  my  father  had 


86  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

given  me  the  most  minute  directions  for  finding  the 
secret  passage,  and  I  had  repeated  them  after  him 
so  as  to  imprint  them  on  my  memory,  for  I  dared 
not  write  down  even  the  least  hint  of  them  lest  the 
paper  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  our  enemies.  I 
told  my  father  that  I  would  look  into  the  chapel, 
and  be  sure  that  I  understood  what  he  had  said. 

"  No  one  will  think  anything  of  it,"  I  added. 
"  I  am  always  wandering  about  the  place,  and  I 
often  go  to  the  chapel  and  sit  in  the  old  stalls." 

"  Very  well,  child.  I  trust  thy  discretion.  Only 
come  in  before  it  is  dark,  lest  the  poor  mother 
should  be  needlessly  alarmed.  And  one  thing 
more,  my  Vevette :  let  not  a  hint  escape  thee  to 
the  Sablots  ;  not  that  I  would  not  trust  the  father 
and  mother  with  any  secret,  but  I  confess  I  mistrust 
Lucille  after  what  you  have  told  us  about  her." 

"  You  don't  think  she  would  betray  us  ?"  Tasked, 
startled. 

"  I  cannot  tell.  If  she  has  indeed  been  tampered 
with  she  may  not  be  able  to  help  herself.  At  all 
events,  the  fewer  people  are  in  a  secret  the  better." 

"When  we  returned  to  the  tower  I  slipped  away 
and  entered  the  old  chapel.  It  was  of  considerable 
extent — quite  a  church,  in  fact,  though  I  suppose 
no  service  had  been  said  there  for  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred years.  The  altar  of  wonderfully  carved  oak 
was  still  in  its  place,  though  all  its  ornaments  and 
images  had  been  removed  or  destroyed.  The  altar- 
piece  which  was  painted  on  the  wall  still  remained, 
and  though  faded  and  stained  was  still  beautiful. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  87 

My  father  once  told  me  that  it  had  been  painted  by 
some  great  Spanish  artist.  The  Virgin  and  her 
Babe  were  the  central  figures.  She  had  a  sad, 
grieved  expression  in  her  dark  eyes,  and  I  had  a 
fancy  that  she  was  mourning  over  the  use  that  had 
been  made  of  her  name.  Certainly  I  think  that 
gentle,  lowly  woman  could  hardly  be  happy  in 
heaven  itself  if  she  knew  how  she  was  treated  here 
on  earth. 

The  chancel  was  surrounded  by  a  row  of  carved 
niches  or  stalls  with  seats  in  them.  I  counted  them 
from  the  left-hand  side  of  the  altar,  and  putting  my 
hand  under  the  seat  of  the  fourth  I  found  and 
slightly  pressed  the  button  my  father  had  told  me 
of.  It  moved  in  my  fingers,  but  I  dared  not  open 
it. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  by  this  secret  way  that  they 
brought  the  wife  of  the  white  chevalier  when  they 
buried  her  alive  in  the  vault  below, ' '  I  thought,  and 
then,  as  a  sound  behind  me  made  me  turn  with  a 
thrill,  I  almost  expected  to  see  the  poor  murdered 
lady's  ghost  arise  before  me.  But  it  was  only  one 
of  our  numerous  family  of  cats  which  had  chosen 
this  place  for  her  young  progeny.  If  I  had  seen 
the  ghost,  however,  I  do  not  believe  I  should  have 
blanched  :  I  was  too  highly  wrought  up  by  enthu- 
siasm and  the  kind  of  nervous  excitement  which  has 
always  served  me  in  place  of  courage,  I  ascended 
the  rickety  stairs  into  the  music  loft,  touched  the 
yellow  keys  of  the  useless  organ,  and  leaning  over 
the  ledge  tried  to  think  how  the  place  must  have 


88 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 


looked  when  it  was  full  of  kneeling  worshippers. 
Then,  being  warned  by  the  deepening  shadows  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  I  went  into  the  house  to 
my  supper. 


CHAPTER  V. 


GUESTS    AT   THE   TOUR. 

SAT  in  my  mother's  room  that  night  till 
it  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  and  then, 
wrapping  myself  in  the  long  black  cloak 
which  is,  or  was,  worn  by  women  of  every 
rank  in  Normandy,  I  stole  down-stairs  and  across  the 
courtyard  to  the  ruined  chapel.  All  was  lonely  and 
deserted.  The  servants  had  gone  to  bed  hours  be- 
fore ;  the  horses  were  safe  in  their  stables,  and  I  en- 
countered nobody  and  nothing  but  our  great  English 
mastiff,  Hal,  who  sniffed  at  me  a  little  doubtfully  at 
the  first,  and  then  stalked  solemnly  at  my  side,  carry- 
ing in  his  mouth  a  stick  he  had  picked  up — a  cere- 
mony which  for  some  unknown  reason  he  always 
performed  when  he  wished  to  do  honor  to  any  one. 
I  was  not  sorry  to  have  his  company,  for  the  place 
was  lonesome  enough,  and  I  had  never  in  my  life 
been  out  of  doors  so  late.  The  moon,  several  days 
past  the  full,  had  risen,  but  was  still  low  in  the  sky, 
and  only  gave  light  enough  to  perplex  me  with 
mysterious  reflections  and  shadows,  which  seemed  to 
have  no  right  reason  for  their  existence.  Owls 


go  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

whooped  dolefully,  answering  each  other  from  side 
to  side.  The  sea  roared  at  a  distance,  and  now  and 
then  a  sudden  gust,  which  did  not  seem  to  be/ong 
to  any  wind  that  was  blowing,  shook  the  ivy  and 
sighed  through  the  ruined  arches.  And  there  were 
other  sounds  about  as  I  entered  the  dark  chapel — 
deep  sighs,  hollow  murmurings  and  whisperings, 
sudden  rushes  as  of  water — no  one  knew  from 
whence.  My  father  always  said  that  these  sounds 
came  from  the  wind  sighing  in  the  deep  vaults 
below  the  chapeh  and  perhaps  from  some  subter- 
ran  passage  which  the  sea  had  mined  for  itself 
at  high  tides  ;  but  the  servants  considered  them  as 
altogether  supernatural,  and  nothing  would  make 
them  approach  the  chapel  after  nightfall. 

I  believe  I  have  said  there  was  a  door  opening 
from  the  chapel  through  the  onter  wall,  but  I  had 
never  seen  it  opened  in  my  time.  By  this  door  1 
now  took  my  stand,  Hal  sitting  in  solemn  wonder 
at  my  side,  and  listened  in  awful  silence,  holding  in 
my  hand  the  great  key  dripping  with  oil.  It  seemed 
an  age  to  me,  though  I  do  not  think  that  more 
than  half  an  hour  passed  before  I  heard  a  slight 
noise,  and  then  three  low  taps  thrice  repeated  on 
the  outside  of  the  door.  Hal  roused  up,  growling 
like  a  lion,  but  my  upraised  finger  silenced  him. 
Quickly,  and  with  a  firmness  of  hand  which  sur- 
prised me,  I  opened  the  door  and  saw,  not  the  old 
man  I  expected,  but  a  peasant  in  Norman  dress. 
For  a  moment  my  heart  stood  still,  and  then  I  was 
reassured. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  91 

"  The  name  of  the  Lord  is  a  strong  tower  !"  said 
the  stranger. 

"  To  them  that  fear  him,"  I  added,  giving  the 
countersign.  "  Come  in  quickly ;  we  must  lose 
no  time." 

He  entered,  and  I  closed  the  door.  Then  dismiss- 
ing old  Hal,  who  was  very  unwilling  to  leave  me  in 
such  dubious  company,  I  led  the  way  to  the  chan- 
cel, by  means  of  the  little  dark-lantern  which  I  had 
held  under  my  cloak.  I  pressed  the  button  with 
all  my  strength  ;  the  whole  of  the  stall  moved  aside, 
and  showed  a  narrow  passage  in  the  thickness  of 
the  wall. 

"  Enter,  monsieur,"  said  I ;  and  then,  giving  him 
the  lantern  to  hold,  I  pulled  back  the  stall  and 
heard  the  bolt  drop  into  its  place.  Then  taking  the 
light  again  and  holding  it  low  to  the  ground,  I  went 
on,  and  the  stranger  followed.  The  road  was  rough, 
and  he  stumbled  more  than  once,  but  still  we  pro- 
ceeded till  we  reached  a  very  narrow  and  broken 
stair,  which  led  steeply  upward  till  at  last  we  came 
to  a  heavy  wooden  door.  This  I  pushed  open,  and 
found  myself  in  a  somewhat  spacious  room  with 
some  remains  of  mouldering  furniture  and  hang- 
ings. Here  had  been  placed  a  small  bed,  a  chair, 
and  some  food,  and  on  the  hearth  were  the  means 
of  lighting  a  little  fire. 

"  Now  we  are  in  safety,  monsieur,  and  can  speak 
a  little,"  said  I,  with  an  odd  feeling  of  protection 
and  patronage  mingled  with  the  veneration  with 
which  I  regarded  my  companion.  "  Please  sit 


92  The  Chevalier  s  Daghtuer. 

down  and  rest  while  I  light  a  fire.  We  can  have 
one  at  any  time,  for  this  chimney  communicates 
with  my  father's  workshop,  where  he  keeps  a  fire  at 
all  hours. ' ' 

I  busied  myself  with  lighting  the  fire,  and  had 
started  a  cheerful  blaze  when  I  heard  a  deep  sigh 
behind  me,  and  looking  round  I  was  just  in  time  to 
break  the  fall  of  the  stranger  as  he  sank  on  the 
floor.  I  was  dreadfully  frightened,  but  I  did  not 
lose  my  presence  of  mind.  I  loosened  his  doublet, 
moistened  his  forehead  and  lips  with  strong  waters, 
and  when  he  began  to  revive,  and  not  before,  I  put 
a  spoonful  of  wine  into  his  mouth,  remembering 
what  Grace  had  said  to  me  once,  "$ever  try  to 
make  an  unconscious  person  swallow.  You  run 
the  risk  of  choking  him.  When  he  begins  to 
recover  he  will  swallow  by  instinct." 

At  last,  when  I  had  begun  to  think  that  I  must 
call  my  mother  at  all  hazards,  the  stranger  opened 
his  eyes  and  regarded  me  with  fixed  and  solemn 
gaze. 

"Is  it  thou,  my  Angelique  ?"  he  murmured. 
"  Hast  thou  at  last  come  to  call  thy  father  away  ?" 

"  Please  take  some  more  wine,"  said  I,  speaking 
as  steadily  as  I  could,  but  my  voice  and  hand  both 
trembled.  The  stranger  sighed  again,  and  then 
seemed  to  come  wholly  to  himself. 

"I  see  I  was  bewildered,"  said  he;  "I  took 
this  demoiselle  for  my  own  daughter,  who  has  been 
in  heaven  this  many  a  year." 

"  I  am  the  Demoiselle  D'Antin,"  said  I.     "My 


The  Chevalier  s  Daiighter.  93 

father  was  obliged  to  go  away,  and  Mrs.  Grace  is 
ill,  so  he  sent  me  to  guide  you  to  a  place  of  safety. " 
And  then  I  brought  the  soup  which  I  had  warmed 
on  the  hearth,  and  pouring  out  wine  I  begged  him 
to  eat  and  drink. 

"And  did  your  father  and  mother  indeed  send 
their  only  child  on  so  dangerous  an  errand  ?"  asked 
the  old  man.  "  Sure,  now  we  shall  know  that  they 
fear  God  indeed,  since  they  have  not  withheld 
their  only  child  from  him." 

"Please  do  eat,  sir,"  I  urged;  "the  soup  will 
be  cold." 

The  old  man  smiled  benignly.  "  Yes,  my  child. 
I  shall  do  justice  to  thy  good  cheer,  never  fear.  I 
have  neither  eaten  nor  drank  for  twenty-four  hours. 
But  now  seek  thine  own  rest,  little  one.  Late 
hours  are  not  for  such  as  thou. ' ' 

"I  will  come  hither  again  to-morrow,"  said  I, 
when  I  had  arranged  the  bed  to  my  liking  ;  "  but 
my  father  bid  me  say  he  would  not  be  able  to  see 
you  before  midnight.  If  any  one  comes  who  knows 
the  secret,  he  will  give  three  knocks,  counting  ten 
between.  If  any  one  else  comes,  take  refuge  in  the 
secret  passage,  and  follow  it  past  the  place  of 
entrance  till  you  come  to  stairs  that  lead  downward 
to  the  chapel  vaults.  These  you  can  descend  ;  but 
do  not  walk  about,  as  the  ground  is  uneven,  and 
there  are  deep  rifts  in  the  rocky  bottom  of  the 
vault.  I  will  leave  you  the  lantern,  as  the  moon 
shines  in  on  the  staircase,  and  I  know  the  steps 
well.  Good-night,  monsieur." 


94  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

The  minister  laid  his  hand  on  my  head  and  gave 
me  his  blessing,  and  I  retreated  to  ray  mother's 
room,  which  I  reached  by  another  long  passage  in 
the  walls  of  the  gallery.  Now  that  the  excitement 
was  over  I  was  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue  and 
sleepiness,  and  most  thankful  I  was  to  be  dosed 
with  the  hot  broth  my  mother  had  kept  ready  for 
me,  and  deposited  in  ray  own  little  bed.  Oh,  how 
horribly  sleepy  I  was  when  I  was  awaked  the  next 
morning.  But  I  knew  I  ought  to  be  stirring  as 
early  as  usual  to  avoid  suspicion,  and  I  was  soon  up 
and  dressed.  How  many  tilings  I  did  that  day  !  I 
ran  to  wait  upon  Grace  and  my  mother  ;  I  mount- 
ed to  the  top  of  the  old  tower  to  gather  the  wall 
pellitory  for  some  medicinal  purpose  or  other,  and 
to  spread  out  the  fruit  which  Grace  always  laid  there 
to  dry  ;  and  finally  1  ran  down  to  the  great  spring 
below  the  orchard  to  bring  up  a  jug  of  water  which 
Grace's  fevered  fancy  had  thought  would  taste 
better  than  any  other. 

I  was  coming  up  the  hill  with  my  jug  on  my  head 
in  Norman  fashion,  and  singing, 

"  Ba-ha-balancez  vous  done  !" 

when  I  met  Lucille.  She  had  been  crying,  and 
was  very  pale. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Lucille  ?"  said  I. 

"  The  matter  is  that  I  will  not  endure  any  more 
to  be  so  treated,"  said  she  passionately.  "  To  be 
scolded  like  a  child  because  I  stayed  out  a  little 
after  sunset  talking  to  Pierre  Le  Febre,  and  to  be 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.  95 

told  that  I  disturb  the  peace  of  the  family.  No,  I 
will  not  endure  it  !" 

"  But,  Lucille,  why  should  you  talk  with  Pierre 
Le  Febre  ?"  I  asked.  "  You  know  what  a  wild 
young  fellow  he  is,  and  what  bad  things  he  lias 
done.  I  don't  wonder  your  mother  does  not  like 
it.  Oh,  Lucille,  surely  you  do  not  care  for  him  !" 

"  Of  course  I  do  not  care  for  him,"  said  Lucille, 
more  angrily  still.  "  I  do  not  care  a  rush  for  him. 
It  is  the  being  lectured  and  put  down  and  never 
daring  to  breathe  that  I  hate." 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  as  much  liberty  as  1  do," 
said  I  ;  "  and  as  to  lectures,  I  should  Tike  to  have 
you  hear  how  Mrs.  Grace  preaches  at  me.  Besides, 
I  think  Mother  Jeanne  was  rightly  displeased.  I 
am  sure  no  girl  who  values  her  character  ought  to 
be  seen  with  Pierre  Le  Febre.  Remember  poor 
Isabeau,  Lucille." 

"  What,  you,  too  !"  said  Lucille  between  her 
closed  lips.  "  Must  you,  too,  take  to  lecturing 
me  ?  Ah,  well,  we  shall  see  !" 

We  had  now  reached  the  point  I  mentioned  be- 
fore, where  the  lane  crossed  the  high  road  to 
Avranches,  and  our  attention  was  attracted  by  the 
sound  of  chanting.  The  priest  and  liis  attendants 
were  coming  up  from  the  village,  evidently  carrying 
the  Host  to  some  dying  person. 

"  Quick,  Lucille,  there  is  yet  time  !"  said  I,  and 
I  turned  aside  into  the  thick  bushes  and  ascended 
the  rock  I  had  spoken  of.  I  had  reached  the  top 
and  hidden  myself  from  observation  before  I  dis 


96  T/ie  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

covered  that  she  was  not  following  me.  I  peeped 
over  and  saw  her  standing  just  where  I  had  left  her. 

"  Quick,  quick,  Lucille  !"  I  cried,  but  she  never 
moved.  The  procession  came  near.  To  my  inex- 
pressible horror  I  saw  Lucille  drop  on  her  knees  and 
remain  in  that  position  till  the  priest  came  up.  He 
stopped,  asked  a  question  or  two,  and  then,  as  it 
seemed,  bestowing  his  blessing  and  giving  her  some- 
thing from  his  pocket,  he  passed  on.  It  was  not  till 
he  was  out  of  sight  that  I  dared  descend.  I  found 
Lucille  still  standing,  apparently  lost  in  thought,  and 
holding  in  her  hand  a  little  gilded  crucifix. 

"  What  ""have  you  done,  Lucille  ?"  I  cried. 
"  You  have  made  an  act  of  catholicity  !" 

"  I  know  it,"  said  she,  in  that  hard,  unfeeling 
tone  which  is  sometimes  a  sign  of  the  greatest  ex- 
citement. "  I  meant  to  do  it !  I  have  had  enough 
of  the  Religion,  as  you  call  it  !"  and  she  spoke  with 
a  tone  of  bitter  contempt.  "  I  am  going  to  try 
what  Holy  Mother  Church  can  do  for  me." 

"  And  leave  your  father  and  mother,  never  to  see 
them  again — leave  them  in  their  old  age,  to  break 
their  hearts  over  their  child's  apostasy — 

"  No  hard  words,  if  you  please,  Mademoiselle 
D'Antin,"  interrupted  Lucille,  with  a  strange 
smile.  "  Suppose  at  my  first  confession  I  choose 
to  tell  of  contempt  for  the  Sacrament,  and  so  on  ? 
As  to  my  father  and  mother,  they  will  not  care. 
Why  did  they  not  try  to  make  me  happy  at  home  ? 
Why  did  they  love  David  the  best  ?  They  have 
never  been  kind  to  me — never  !" 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter,  97 

"  Every  word  you  say  is  false  !"  I  interrupted  in 
my  turn,  far  too  angry  for  any  considerations  of 
prudence.  "  Your  parents  have  always  been  good 
to  you — far  better  than  you  deserved.  Go,  then, 
traitor  as  thou  art — go,  and  put  the  crown  to  your 
baseness  by  betraying  your  friend  !  Sell  yourself 
to  Satan,  and  then  find  out  too  late  what  his  service 
is  worth.  May  Heaven  comfort  your  poor  father 
and  mother !" 

And  with  that  I  walked  away,  but  so  unsteadily 
that  I  could  no  longer  balance  my  jug  safely  on  my 
head.  I  stopped  to  take  it  in  my  hands,  when  I 
heard  my  name  called,  and  in  a  moment  Lucille 
came  up  to  me. 

"  Do  not  let  us  part  so,  Vevette,"  said  she.  "  I 
was  wrong  to  speak  to  you  as  1  did.  Forgive  me, 
and  say  good- by.  We  shall  perhaps  never  meet 
again." 

My  heart  was  melted  by  these  words. 

"  Oh,  Lucille  !"  I  cried,  throwing  my  arms  round 
her,  "  do  not  lose  a  moment  !  There  is  yet  time. 
Hasten  to  your  parents,  and  tell  them  what  you 
have  done.  They  will  find  a  way  for  you  to 
escape." 

"  And  so  have  my  father  sent  to  the  galleys  for 
abducting  a  Catholic  child  ?"  said  Lucille  ;  "  or  per- 
haps have  lighted  matches  tied  to  his  fingers,  or  live 
coals  laid  on  his  breast,  to  force  him  to  confess  ? 
No,  Vevette,  the  deed  is  done,  and  I  am  not  sorry 
—no,  I  am  not  sorry  !"  she  repeated  firmly. 
"  Good -by,  Vevette.  Kiss  me  once,  though  I  am 


98  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

an  apostate.  I  shall  not  infect  you.  Comfort  my 
mother,  if  you  can." 

I  embraced  her,  and  took  my  way  homeward, 
stupefied  with  grief.  I  can  safely  say  that  if  Lucille 
had  been  struck  dead  by  a  thunderbolt  before  my 
eyes  the  stroke  would  not  have  been  more  dreadful. 
My  mother  met  me  at  the  door  of  Grace's  room, 
whither  I  went  with  my  burden,  hardly  knowing 
more  what  I  was  doing  than  some  wounded  animal 
which  crawls  home  to  die. 

"  You  are  late,  petite,"  said  she  ;  and  then,  catch- 
ing sight  of  my  face,  she  asked  me  what  wras  the 
matter,  repeating  my  name  and  her  inquiry  in  the 
tenderest  tones,  as  I  fell  into  her  kind  arms  and  laid 
my  head  on  her  shoulder,  unable  to  speak  a  word. 
Then  in  a  new  tone  of  alarm,  as  the  ever  present 
danger  arose  before  her, 

"  Has  anything  happened  to  your  father,  Ve- 
vette  ?  Speak,  my  child  !" 

"  Speak,  Mrs.  Yevette  !"  said  Grace  sharply. 
"  Don't  you  see  you  are  killing  your  mother  ?" 

The  crisp,  imperative  tones  of  command  seemed 
to  awaken  my  stunned  powers. 

"No,  no,  not  my  father,"  I  said,  "but  Lu- 
cille ;"  and  then  I  poured  out  my  story. 

' '  The  wretched,  unhappy  girl !  She  has  sacrificed 
herself  in  a  fit  of  ill-temper,  and  is  now  lost  to  her 
family  forever  !"  said  my  mother. 

"  But  can  nothing  be  done  ?  Can  we  not  save 
her,  tnaman  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  fear  not,"  said   my  mother.      "The  act 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  99 

too  public  and  deliberate,  and  they  will  not  lose 
sight  of  her,  you  may  be  sure.  Poor,  deluded,  un- 
happy girl  !  By  one  hasty  act  she  has  thrown 
away  home,  friends,  and,  I  fear,  her  own  soul  also." 

I  burst  into  a  fit  of  sobbing  so  hysterical  that  my 
mother,  alarmed,  hastened  to  put  me  to  bed,  and 
administer  some  quieting  drops,  which  after  a 
time  put  me  to  sleep.  I  did  not  wake  till  the 
beams  of  the  rising  sun  startled  me.  1  opened  my 
eyes  with  that  wretched  dull  feeling  that  something 
dreadful  had  happened,  which  we  have  all  experi- 
enced. Then,  as  the  truth  came  to  my  mind,  I 
dropped  my  head  again  on  my  pillow  in  a  fit  of 
bitter  weeping.  But  my  tears  did  not  last  long.  I 
remembered  our  guest  in  the  tower,  and  that  no 
one  had  been  near  him  all  the  day  before.  I  sprang 
up,  dressed  myself  quickly  and  quietly,  and  slipped 
into  my  mother's  room. 

"  Is  that  you,  Yevette  ?"  said  maman  sleepily. 
"  "Why  are  you  up  so  early  ?" 

"1  am  going  to  visit  the  pastor,  maman,"  I 
answered  softly  ;  "no  one  has  been  near  him  since 
the  night  before  last,  and  he  must  think  it  very 
strange.  Besides,  he  will  be  in  need  of  fresh  pro- 
visions." 

"  Go,  then,  my  precious  one,  but  be  careful. 
The  keys  of  the  storeroom  are  there  on  my  table." 

The  storeroom  was  the  peculiar  domain  of  Mrs. 
Grace — a  kind  of  shrine  where  she  paid  secret 
devotional  rites,  which  seemed  to  consist  in  taking 
all  the  things  out  of  the  drawers  and  cupboards  and 


ioo  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

putting  them  back  again.  I  had  never  been  in  it 
more  than  once  or  twice,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling 
almost  of  awe  that  I  took  the  key  from  the  outer 
lock  and  shut  myself  in.  What  a  clean,  orderly, 
sweet-savoring  little  room  it  was.  The  odor  of 
sweet  herbs  or  gingerbread  will  even  now  bring  the 
whole  place  vividly  before  my  mind.  1  filled  my 
basket  with  good  things,  not  forgetting  some  of 
Mrs.  Grace's  English  gingerbread  and  saffron-cakes 
and  a  bottle  of  wine.  Then,  as  a  new  thought 
struck  me,  I  took  a  small  brass  jar,  such  as  is  used 
for  that  purpose  in  Normandy,  and  stealing  out  I 
called  my  own  cow  from  the  herd  waiting  in  the 
courtyard,  and  milked  my  vessel  full.  Just  as  I 
had  finished,  old  Mathew  appeared. 

"  You  are  early,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  smiling. 
"  That  is  well.  Early  sunbeams  make  fresh  roses. 
I  know  madame  will  enjoy  her  morning  draught  all 
the  more  for  that  it  comes  from  your  hands." 

"  1  like  to  milk,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  must  not  stay. 
Maman  will  wonder  where  I  am. ' ' 

I  took  my  basket  from  its  hiding-place  and 
hastened  up  the  stairs  to  the  tower.  Before  knock- 
ing I  listened  a  moment  at  the  door.  The  old  man 
was  up,  and  already  engaged  in  prayer.  I  heard  the 
most  touching  petitions  put  up  for  my  father  and 
mother  and  for  myself.  Surely  all  the  prayers 
offered  for  me  in  my  childhood  and  youth  were  not 
thrown  away.  It  was  for  their  sake  that  I  was  not 
left  to  perish  in  the  wilderness  of  this  world  into 
which  I  wandered. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          101 

When  the  voice  ceased  I  made  the  signal,  and 
the  door  was  opened. 

"  Ah,  my  daughter,  good-morning, "  said  the  old 
man,  with  a  benignant  smile.  "  I  began  to  fear 
some  evil  had  befallen  you  or  yours.  Has  not 
your  father  returned  ?" 

"  No,  monsieur,  he  said  he  might  possibly  not 
arrive  till  to-night.  I  was  ill  last  night,  and  not 
able  to  come  to  you.  I  hope  you  have  not  been 
hungry."  And  with  some  housewifely  importance 
I  arranged  my  provisions  on  the  old  table  and 
poured  out  a  tall  glass  full  of  the  rich,  frothy  milk. 

"  This  is  indeed  refreshing,"  said  the  old  pastor 
after  a  long  draught  ;  ' '  better  than  wine  to  an  old 
man.  Milk  is  for  babes,  they  say  ;  and  I  suppose 
as  we  approach  our  second  childhood  we  crave  it 
again.  I  remember,  as  I  lay  for  four  days  in  a  cave 
by  the  sea-shore,  with  nothing  to  eat  but  the 
muscles  and  limpets,  and  no  drink  but  the  brackish 
water  which  dripped  from  the  rocks,  I  was  per- 
petually haunted  by  the  remembrance  of  my 
mother's  dairy,  with  its  vessels  of  brass  and  red 
earthenware  overflowing  with  milk  and  cream. 
But,  my  child,  you  are  a  bountiful  provider.  Will 
you  not  awaken  suspicion  ?" 

' '  Oh,  no,  monsieur  ;  I  have  taken  everything 
from  the  storeroom,  where  no  one  ever  goes  but 
maman  and  Mrs.  Grace,  her  English  gentlewoman. 
I  must  leave  you  now,  but  I  will  come  again  to- 
night." 

I  found  my  mother  up  and  dressed.     We  had 


IO2  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

only  just  finished  our  morning  reading  when 
Julienne  appeared,  with  the  news  that  Simon  and 
Jeanne  Sablot  desired  to  see  madame. 

"  I  fear  the  good  woman  has  had  news  of  her 
son,"  observed  Julienne.  "  Her  eyes  are  swollen 
with  weeping." 

"  Bring  them  to  me  at  once,"  said  my  mother. 
"  Poor  Jeanne  !  there  is  but  One  who  can  comfort 
her.  I  suppose  Lucille  has  gone. " 

It  was  even  so.  Lucille  had  come  home  and 
done  her  share  of  work,  as  usual.  She  had  sat  up 
rather  late,  making  and  doing  up  a  new  cap  for  her 
mother.  In  the  morning  she  did  not  appear,  and 
Jeanne  supposed  she  had  overslept,  and  did  not  call 
her.  Becoming  alarmed  at  last,  she  went  to  her 
room,  and  found  it  empty.  The  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in.  All  Lucille's  clothes  were  gone,  but  her 
gold  chain  and  the  silver  dove  worn  by  the  Pro- 
ven^al  women  of  the  Religion,  which  she  had  in- 
herited from  her  grandmother,  were  left  behind. 
It  was  evident  that  Jeanne  had  no  suspicion  of  the 
truth. 

"  She  has  left  this  writing,"  said  she,  producing 
a  note,  ' '  though  she  knew  that  I  could  not  read  it. 
She  has  been  talking  more  than  once  of  late  with 
that  reprobate  Pierre  Le  Febre.  Doubtless  she  has 
gone  away  with  him,  and  we  can  have  no  remedy, 
because  he  is  of  our  enemies  and  we  are  of  the  Re- 
ligion. Will  madame  have  the  goodness  to  read 
the  note  ?" 

"  My  poor  Jeanne,  the  matter  is  not  what  you 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  103 

fear,  but  quite  as  bad,"  said  my  mother,  reading  tlie 
note,  her  color  rising  as  she  did  so.  "I  fear  you 
will  never  see  poor  Lucille  again." 

The  note  was  a  short  and  cold  farewell,  saying 
that  the  writer  had  become  a  Catholic,  and  was 
about  to  take  refuge  with  the  nuns  at  the  hospital. 

"  I  know  I  have  never  been  a  favorite  with  you, 
so  I  hope  you  will  not  be  greatly  grieved  at  my 
loss,"  was  the  cruel  conclusion.  "  If  I  had  had  a 
happier  home,  things  might  have  been  different. 
Do  not  try  to  see  me.  It  will  only  lead  to  trouble. 
Farewell." 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  anguish  of  the 
poor  parents  as  the  letter  was  finished.  Simon  was 
for  going  at  once  to  the  hospital  to  claim  his 
daughter,  and  my  mother  with  difficulty  convinced 
him  that  such  a  step  would  be  fruitless  of  anything 
but  trouble. 

"  I  would  at  least  know  that  she  is  there,"  said 
Simon.  "  It  may  be  that  this  is  but  a  blind,  after 
all." 

' '  I  fear  not, ' '  said  my  mother  ;  and  she  told  him 
of  the  scene  I  had  witnessed  yesterday.  Simon 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  several  times. 

"  Let  her  go  !"  said  he  at  last.  "  She  has  been 
the  child  of  many  prayers.  It  may  be  those  prayers 
will  be  heard,  so  that  she  will  not  be  utterly  lost. 
Come,  my  wife,  let  us  return  to  our  desolate  home. 
Madame  has  cares  and  troubles  enough  already. ' ' 

"  May  God  console  you,  my  poor  friends,"  said 
my  mother.  "  Do  not  give  up  praying  for  the 


IO4  The  Chevaliers  Daughter 

strayed  lamb      It  may  be  that  she  will  be  brought 
home  to  the  fold  at  last." 

I  suppose  no  Protestant  here  in  England  in  these 
quiet  days  can  have  any  idea  of  the  feelings  with 
which  such  an  act  as  Lucille's  was  regarded  by  those 
of  the  Religion  at  that  time.  It  seems  even  strange 
to  myself,  till  I  bring  back  by  reflection  the  atmos- 
phere in  which  we  lived.  That  some  should  be  led, 
through  terror  and  torture,  to  deny  their  faith  was 
to  be  expected.  Many  did  thus  conform,  so  far  as 
outside  appearances  went — that  is,  they  went  to 
mass,  even  to  communion,  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  and  bowed  their  heads  to  the  wayside  images. 
These  were  looked  upon  with  pity  by  the  more 
steadfast  brethren,  and  always  received  back  into 
the  church,  on  repentance  and  confession.  But  such 
a  step  as  this  of  Lucille's  was  almost  unheard  of, 
and  it  produced  a  great  commotion  in  our  little 
Protestant  community.  It  was  not  only  a  for- 
saking of  the  faith  of  her  fathers,  but  a  deliberate 
going  over  to  the  side  of  our  treacherous  oppressors 
— of  those  who  made  us  to  serve  with  cruel  and 
hard  bondage,  who  despoiled  and  tortured  us,  and 
trampled  us  into  the  very  mire.  And  there  was  no 
remedy.  The  law  declared  that  girls  were  able  to 
become  "  Catholics" — such  was  the  phrase  of  these 
arrogant  oppressors — at  twelve  years  old.  Should 
one  do  so,  she  was  to  be  taken  from  the  custody  of 
her  parents,  who  were  nevertheless  obliged  to  sup- 
port her.  Later,  matters  were  even  worse.  Little 
children  of  five  and  six  years  old,  who  could  be 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          105 

deluded  into  kissing  a  wax  doll,  or  looking  into  a 
clmrch,  or  bowing  the  head  to  an  image,  were  carried 
off,  never  to  be  heard  of  again.  Often  they  were 
kidnapped  without  any  such  ceremony.  The  very 
pious  Madame  do  Haintenon  (whom  some  folks 
make  quite  a  saint  ^f  nowadays)  availed  herself  of 
this  infamous  law  to  A  great  extent,  and  many  of  the 
pupils  at  her  famous  school  of  St.  Cyr  were  of  this 
class.  Thus  she  took  both  his  cliildren  from  her 
cousin,  the  Marquis  de  Yillette,  because  the  poor 
gentleman  would  norf  yield  to  her  arguments,  but 
made  fun  of  them.  * 

As  my  mother  h?wl  said  to  Simon  Sablot,  there 
was  no  redress.  We  of  the  Religion  had  no  chance 
of  justice,  even  in  a  merely  civil  suit,  much  more  in 
a  case  like  the  present.  It  was  openly  said  in  the 
courts,  when  a  man  complained  of  an  unrighteous 
judgment,  "  Ah,  well,  the  remedy  is  in  your 
hands.  "Why  do  you  not  become  Catholic  ?"  All 
new  converts  were  permitted  to  put  off  the  payment 
of  their  debts  for  three  years,  and  were  exempted 
from  many  taxes  which  fell  heavily  upon  their 
brethren.  In  short,  we  were  oppressed  and  trodden 
down  always. 

There  were  those,  however,  even  of  our  enemies, 
who  raised  their  voices  against  these  infamous  laws. 
Certain  bishops,  especially  those  inclined  to  Jansen 
ism,  protested  against  the  Protestants  being  abso- 

*  Souvenirs  of  the  Marquise  de  Caylus,  quoted  by  Felise. 
Anyone  who  thinks  Madame  de  Maintenoii  a  pattern  would  do 
well  not  to  read  memoirs  ojfjier  own  days. 


io6  The  Chevaliers  Daiig  liter. 

lutely  driven  to  commit  sacrilege,  by  coming  to  the 
mass  in  an  unfit  frame  of  mind.  Fenelon  afterward 
wrote  a  most  indignant  letter  to  the  king  on  the 
subject.  The  Bishop  of  Orleans  absolutely  refused 
to  allow  the  quartering  of  dragoons  on  his  people. 
More  than  one  kind  old  cure  or  parish  priest  was 
exiled  from  the  presbytery,  where  he  had  spent  all 
his  days,  and  sent  to  languish  in  some  dreary  place 
among  the  marshes  or  in  the  desolate  sandes,  for 
omitting  to  give  notice  of  some  heretic  who  had 
died  without  the  sacraments,  or  for  warning  his 
poor  neighbors  of  the  approach  of  the  dragoons. 
The  very  Franciscans  who  had  charge  of  some  of 
those  dreadful  prisons  where  poor  women  were  shut 
up,  after  trying  their  best  to  convert  their  charges, 
would  relent,  and,  ceasing  to  persecute  them,  would 
comfort  them  as  well  as  they  could  by  reading  the 
Psalms  and  praying  with  them,  smuggling  in  biscuits 
and  fruit  and  other  little  dainties  in  their  snutfy  old 
pockets,  and  even,  it  was  said,  introducing  now  and 
then  a  Bible  in  the  same  way.*  The  Franciscans 
have  always  been  the  most  humane  of  all  the  regular 
orders.  But  again  I  am  wandering  a  long  way 
from  my  story.  However,  I  shall  not  apologize  for 
those  digressions.  They  are  absolutely  needful  to 
make  any  reader  understand  what  was  the  state  of 
things  in  France  at  that  time. 

*  See  the  affecting  story  of  the  Tower  of  Constancy,  told  in 
many  authors,  and  well  repeated  in  Bungener's  '  Priest  an<} 
Huguenot,"  a  book  D'»'  lvlf  -ipnreciated. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 


THE    LONELY    GRANGE. 

HAT  evening  my  father  came  home, 
bringing  with  him  my  English  cousin, 
Andrew  Corbet,  whom  I  had  never  seen, 
and  whom  he  had  been  expecting  for 
some  days.  He  had  come  over  in  the  train  of  the 
English  ambassador,  and  therefore  was  to  some  ex- 
tent a  sacred  person,  though  the  name'  of  English- 
man was  not  at  that  time  considered  in  Europe  as  it 
came  to  be  afterward.  Charles  the  Second  \vas  but  a 
subsidized  vassal  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  as  every 
one  knew.  It  remained  for  the  ungracious,  silent 
little  Dutchman,  who  came  afterward,  to  raise  Eng- 
land once  more  to  her  proper  place  among  the  na- 
tions. I  may  as  well  say  here,  not  to  make  an  un- 
necessary mystery,  that  Andrew  Corbet  was  my  des- 
tined husband,  that  arrangement  having  been  made 
when  we  were  both  children.  Such  family  arrange- 
ments were  and  are  still  common  in  France,  where  a 
girl's  widest  liberty  is  only  a  liberty  of  refusal,  and  a 
demoiselle  would  no  more  expect  to  choose  her  hus- 
band than  to  choose  her  parents.  In  England  there 
has  always  been  more  opportunity  for  choice — an 


io8  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

opportunity  which  has  so  greatly  increased  since  I 
can  remember  that  it  is  hard  to  see  where  it  is  going 
to  end.  I  must  say  that,  though  I  would  never 
force  a  young  person's  inclinations,  yet  I  do  think 
the  parents  should  have  something  to  say  as  to  their 
children's  settlement.  However,  a  person  of  dis- 
cretion will  find  ways  of  managing  such  matters  and 
preventing  uncomfortable  entanglements. 

I  suppose  I  was  not  intended  to  know  of  this 
affair  quite  so  soon,  but  it  came  out  through  Mrs. 
Grace's  fussy  anxiety  that  I  should  appear  well  in 
the  eyes  of  my  intended  bridegroom  ;  and,  being 
once  out,  why,  there  was  an  end,  as  my  mother  said. 
I  was  not  looking  my  best,  by  any  means.  Four- 
teen is  not  usually  a  beautiful  age,  and  I  was  no 
exception  to  the  general  rule.  I  was  naturally  dark 
— "  a  true  black  Corny,"'  my  father  said — and  in- 
clined to  paleness,  and  my  appearance  was  not  at  all 
improved  by  the  dark  lines  under  my  eyes,  caused 
by  the  grief  and  fatigue  of  the  last  few  days. 
However,  this  same  grief  and  care  had  a  good  effect 
in  one  way.  They  had  brought  my  better  nature 
uppermost  for  the  time,  and  banished  those  day- 
dreams, which  were  my  bane,  so  that  I  was  much 
less  awkward  and  self-conscious  than  I  should  other- 
wise have  been.  I  was  of  course  curious  to  see  my 
future  bridegroom,  but  I  cannot  say  that  I  remem- 
ber feeling  any  particular  flutter  or  agitation  on  the 
occasion.  I  was  too  young  for  thai,  and  I  had  had 
no  opportunity  to  form  any  other  fancy.  In  this 
country  it  would  have  been  thought  improper  if  not 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  109 

dangerous  for  me  to  associate  so  freely  with  a  hand- 
some young  working-man  like  David  Sablot,  hut  I 
can  safely  say  that  such  an  idea  never  entered  any 
one's  head.  The  distinction  of  rank  is  very  much 
more  severely  marked  in  France  than  here,  and  was 
much  more  so  at  that  time  than  now  ;  and  besides, 
David  was  my  foster-brother,  and  as  such  no  more 
to  be  considered  in  any  lover-like  light  than  an 
own  brother  would  have  been.  Andrew's  only  rival 
was  a  certain  Lord  Percy,  a  creature  of  my  own 
imagination,  who  figured  largely  in  that  visionary 
world  which  I  inhabited  at  times — an  impossible 
creature,  compounded  of  King  Arthur,  Sir  Galahad, 
and  some  of  the  fine  gentlemen  I  had  come  across 
in  my  stolen  readings — who  was  to  rescue  me  from 
unheard-of  dangers,  and  endure  unheard-of  hard- 
ships in  my  behalf,  though  I  never  quite  made  up 
my  mind  whether  he  was  to  die  at  my  feet  or  carry 
me  off  in  triumph  to  his  ancestral  halls. 

Andrew,  certainly,  was  not  the  least  like  this  hero 
of  mine.  He  was  handsome  in  a  certain  way,  but 
that  way  was  not  mine.  He  was  short,  for  one 
thing,  and  broad-shouldered,  with  a  large  nose,  large 
gray  eyes  with  dilating  pupils,  so  that  his  eyes 
usually  passed  for  black  ;  and  his  hair  and  beard 
were  so  black  as  to  be  almost  blue,  and  crisped  like 
my  own.  No,  he  was  not  at  all  like  Lord  Percy  ; 
but,  after  all,  I  liked  his  looks.  Andrew  had  been 
about  the  world  a  good  deal  for  a  man  of  his  years, 
having  been  on  two  or  three  long  sea- voyages,  and 
he  was  by  no  means  as  awkward  as  young  men  of 


1 1  o  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

that  age  arc  apt  to  be.  He  saluted  my  mother  and 
myself  with  considerable  grace,  I  thought,  and 
made  himself  at  home  in  our  house,  with  just 
enough  and  not  too  much  freedom.  On  the  whole 
I  liked  him  very  well.  Oh,  how  I  longed  to  tell 
Lucille  about  him  ;  and  I  shed  some  bitter  tears  at 
the  thought  that  I  should  never  confide  in  her 
again. 

My  father's  first  inquiry,  after  he  was  assured  of 
our  health  and  safety,  was  for  the  pastor,  and  he 
praised  the  courage  and  presence  of  mind  I  had 
shown. 

"  "We  must  not  keep  the  old  man  here,"  he  said. 
"  The  tide  will  be  favorable  for  his  escape  by  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  and  an  English  ship  will  be 
waiting  for  him  off  the  shore.  But  first  I  would 
fain  have  one  more  celebration  of  the  Holy  Supper 
with  some  of  our  poor  friends.  Heaven  knows 
when  we  shall  have  another  chance.  But  what  is 
this  I  hear  about  the  Sablots  ?" 

My  mother  repeated  the  story.  My  father 
listened  with  the  greatest  interest,  and  when  it  was 
finished,  turning  to  me  he  asked,  with  anxiety, 
whether  I  were  quite  sure  I  had  not  been  seen  by 
the  priest. 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  I.  "I  was  hidden  on  the 
top  of  the  rock,  but  I  saw  it  all. 

My  father  sighed.  "  The  net  is  drawn  closer  and 
closer,"  said  he.  "  Ah,  my  Marguerite,  were  you 
and  the  little  one  but  in  safety  !" 

"  But  I  do  not  understand."  said  Andrew,  ppeak- 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          1 1 1 

ing  almost  for  the  first  time.  "  I  see  that  this  girl 
has  become  a  Papist ;  but  need  that  separate  her 
entirely  from  her  family  ?  It  would  be  a  grief  to 
them,  of  course  ;  but  could  they  not  go  their  way, 
and  let  her  go  hers  ?  Surely,  they  might  at  least 
give  the  poor  thing  a  home. ' ' 

"  You  do  not  understand,  indeed,  my  poor  An- 
drew," said  my  father,  smiling  sadly.  And  he  ex- 
plained the  matter  in  a  few  choice  words.  An- 
drew's brow  darkened,  and  he  struck  his  hand  on 
the  table. 

"  And  there  are  thousands  upon  thousands  of  you 
Protestants  in  France,  able  men,  and  many  of  you 
gentlemen  used  to  arms,  and  yet  you  suffer  such 
tyranny  !"  said  he.  "  Why  do  you  not  rise  upon 
your  oppressors,  and  at  least  have  a  fight  for  your 
lives  ?" 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  son,"  said  my  father.  "  Would 
you  have  us  rise  in  rebellion  against  our  king — the 
Lord's  anointed  !" 

"  The  king  is  a  man  like  another  man,  when  all  is 
done,"  said  my  cousin  sturdily  ;  "  and  has  a  joint 
in  his  neck,  as  the  old  Scotchman  said.  I  have 
been  in  America,  my  cousin,  where  our  colonies  are 
growing,  and  where  they  seem  to  do  fairly  well  at 
a  pretty  good  distance  from  any  king.  As  to  such 
a  man  as  this  Louis  being  the  Lord's  anointed,  any 
one  may  believe  that  who  likes.  /  don't ;  or,  if  he 
is,  he  is  such  an  one  as  Saul  or  Rehoboam." 

"  Some  of  our  people  tulk  as  you  do,'1  said  my 
father,  while  I  looked  at  my  cousin's  firm  lips  and 


1 1 2  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

sparkling  eyes  with  great  approval  ;  "  but  we  are 
too  much  divided  among  ourselves  on  the  subject 
to  make  any  plan  of  resistance  possible. ' ' 

"  Then  I  would  flee  to  some  better  place,"  said 
Andrew.  "  Come  over  to  Cornwall  and  set  up 
your  tent.  There  is  a  fine  estate  to  be  bought,  not 
far  from  Tre  Madoc.  Some  of  the  lands  have 
mines  upon  them,  which  my  father  believes  could 
be  worked  to  advantage,  and  you  could  give  em- 
ployment to  many  of  your  oppressed  countrymen. 
Why  not  go  thither  at  once  ?" 

"  And  leave  my  poor  people  ?" 

"  The  people  are  not  in  so  much  danger  as  you 
are,"  answered  Andrew.  "  It  is  the  high  tree  that 
falls  in  the  storm.  Think  of  my  aunt  and  cousin 
here,  condemned  to  such  things  as  you  have  told 
me  of,  or  left  desolate  by  your  loss.  Surely  you 
should  consider  them  as  well  as  your  tenants. ' ' 

Andrew  spoke  with  great  warmth,  yet  with  due 
modesty,  and  I  liked  him  better  and  better  every 
moment.  My  mother  and  I  both  looked  at  my 
father. 

"  Here  are  two  pairs  of  eyes  pleading  with  you," 
said  my  father.  "  I  must  say  that  your  plan  is  a 
most  tempting  one,  if  it  could  be  carried  out,  and 
we  are  in  a  better  position  to  make  such  an  escape 
than  many  others,  being  so  near  the  sea,  and  hav- 
ing a  good  deal  of  wealth  laid  by  in  jewels  against 
a  day  of  need.  But,  my  son,  let  me  most  earnestly 
impress  upon  your  mind  the  great  need  of  caution 
in  speech  even  among  ourselves.  Though  all  of 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  1 1 3 

our  household  are  faithful,  so  far  as  I  know,  yet 
they  are  always  liable  to  be  tampered  with,  aud  we 
are  never  safe  from  spies  and  eavesdroppers.  Such 
a  speech  as  yours  about  the  king,  if  reported,  would 
be  our  utter  ruin.  Let  me  beg  you,  for  all  our 
sakes,  to  be  careful." 

I  saw  Andrew  clinch  his  hand  and  set  his  teeth 
hard  at  the  idea  of  such  care  being  needful ;  and 
indeed  it  was  a  new  care  for  him.  Times  were  not 
very  good  in  England  just  then,  but  they  were  far 
better  than  with  us. 

We  separated,  to  prepare  for  supper.  I  dressed 
myself  in  my  very  best,  to  do  honor  to  my  cousin's 
arrival,  though  I  was  quite  conscious,  when  I  looked 
into  my  little  mirror,  that  I  did  not  look  nearly  so 
well  in  my  fine  damask  gown  and  lace  cap  as  I  did 
in  the  gray-blue  homespun  which  was  my  ordinary 
morning  wear.  Grace  would  sit  up  in  bed  to 
arrange  my  cap  and  lace  my  stays  herself,  and  she 
drew  them  so  tight  I  could  hardly  breathe. 

The  next  morning  I  was  sent  down  to  Father 
Simon's  cottage  with  a  weighty  message — no  less 
important  than  this  :  that  there  would  be  a  celebra- 
tion of  the  Holy  Supper,  as  we  always  called  it,  that 
very  night,  in  the  vaults  under  the  lonely  grange, 
which  stood  in  a  hollow  of  our  domain.  Simon 
was  to  send  word  to  certain  of  the  faithful  at 
Sartilly  and  Granvnlle.  Andrew,  who  had  already 
as  it  were  taken  possession  of  me,  would  go  with 
me,  and  though  Mrs.  Grace  demurred  at  such  a 
freedom,  he  had  his  way.  He  always  has  had  a 


1 1 4          The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

great  knack  of  getting  his  own  way,  partly,  I  think, 
because  he  goes  on  that  way  so  quietly,  without 
ever  contradicting  any  one.  I  did  not  go  by  the 
lane  this  time,  but  through  the  orchard,  over  the 
heathy  knoll,  where  my  father  and  myself  had  had 
such  an  important  conversation,  and  down  the  lit- 
tle ravine  which  the  stream  had  made  in  its  passage 
to  the  sea.  It  was  a  somewhat  scrambling  walk, 
and  I  liked  it  all  the  better  for  that.  My  ostensi- 
ble errand  was  a  search  for  fresh  eggs,  so  I  carried 
my  little  straw  basket  on  my  arm.  I  had  a  pass- 
word in  which  to  communicate  my  errand,  and, 
meeting  one  of  the  old  men  who  was  to  be  sum- 
moned, I  used  it. 

"  Jean  Martin,  my  father  bids  me  ask  you  if  the 
old  grange  will  do  to  store  the  apples  in  ?" 

The  old  man's  face  lighted  up,  and  he  took  off 
his  hat. 

"When  should  they  be  stored,  mademoiselle?" 
he  asked. 

"  To-morrow  at  high  noon,"  was  the  answer. 

"  It  is  as  safe  a  place  as  any.  Thank  your  hon- 
ored father  and  yourself.  I  will  be  there." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  asked  Andrew,  as  we 
went  on  ;  "  why  should  that  old  fellow  be  so  won- 
derfully pleased  at  being  asked  about  a  place  to 
store  the  apples  ?" 

"  Hush  !"  said  I,  speaking  English,  which  I  now 
did  quite  perfectly.  "  You  must  learn  not  to  talk 
so  loud." 

"  I  am  like  to  lose  the  use  of  my  tongue  alto- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  115 

gether,  if  I  stay  long  in  this  country, "  said  lie  dis- 
contentedly. "  Well,  cousin,  I  will  squeak  like  a 
rere-mouse,  if  that  will  content  you.  But  what 
does  it  mean  ?" 

I  explained  the  matter,  taking  care  to  speak  in 
English,  and  in  a  low  tone. 

' '  So  that  was  it, ' '  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  wonder 
mixed  with  compassion.  ' '  And  will  the  old  man 
really  leave  his  bed  at  midnight,  and  risk  not  only 
the  rheumatism  but  his  life,  on  such  an  errand  as 
that?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  his  wife  also,  though  she  is 
very  infirm,"  said  I.  "We  of  the  Religion  are 
used  to  such  risks." 

' '  I  wonder  what  one  of  the  farmers  in  our  parish 
at  Tre  Madoc  would  say  to  such  an  invitation  ?"  was 
Andrew's  comment.  "  But  what  if  you  should  be 
discovered  ?" 

"  Then  we  should  be  shot  down  like  wolves,  or 
carried  away  no  one  knows  where.  Such  things 
happen  every  day." 

"  And  in  our  free  country,  where  every  one  can 
worship,  the  pastor  has  often  hard  work  to  gather  a 
dozen  people  to  the  communion,"  remarked  An- 
drew. "  Truly,  if  Papist  France  deserves  a  judg- 
ment for  suppressing  the  truth,  I  know  not  but 
England  deserves  as  much  for  neglecting  it." 

"  Are  people  there,  then,  so  careless  of  their 
duties  ?"  I  asked. 

' '  Many  of  them  are.  The  court  sets  the  worst 
example,  and  those  of  the  gentry  who  frequent  it 


1 1 6  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

are  not  slow  to  follow.  And  though  there  are  in 
London  itself  and  scattered  all  through  the  land 
faithful  and  earnest  preachers  of  the  Word,  there 
are  also  far  too  many  who  think  of  the  church  only 
as  a  means  of  getting  a  living  at  a  very  easy  rate. 
And  yet  I  dare  say  a  great  many  of  these  easy-going 
pastors,  if  it  came  to  the  pinch,  would  wake  up  and 
show  that  they  could  die  for  their  faith,  if  need 
were.  Only  they  would  not  die  as  easily  as  people 
seem  to  do  over  here,  "he  added.  "  They  would 
have  a  fight  for  it  first." 

"  Our  pastors  do  not  think  it  right  to  fight,"  said 
I,  a  little  vexed. 

"  I  know  they  do  not,  and  there  is  where  I  differ 
from  them,"  said  he.  "Is  this  the  farm  where 
we  are  going  ?  What  an  odd,  pretty  place  !  And 
what  splendid  old  apple-trees  !" 

1 '  Yes,  Father  Simon  is  very  proud  of  his  apples, 
poor  man.  The  place  does  not  look  like  itself,"  I 
added,  with  a  sigh,  as  I  missed  Lucille  from  the 
bench  before  the  door,  where  she  would  have  been 
sitting  with  her  distaff  at  this  hour.  We  found 
Mother  Jeanne  going  about  her  household  work  as 
usual,  but  in  a  sad,  spiritless  way,  quite  unlike  her 
ordinary  bustling  fashion.  Her  face  brightened, 
however,  when  she  heard  my  errand,  and  she  called 
in  Simon  to  hear  it  also.  To  him  I  gave,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  questions  about  storing  the  apples,  a  com- 
mission about  cider-casks,  to  be  executed  at  Sartilly. 

"It  is  well,"  said  he;  "I  shall  attend  to  the 
matter.  Our  Master  has  not  quite  forgotten  us, 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          \  \  7 

thou  seest,  my  Jeanne,  since  he  sends  us  such 
help  and  comfort  by  the  way." 

"Did  you  think  he  had,  Father  Simon?"  I 
asked. 

"Not  so,  Mamselle,  but  one's  faith  droops  at 
times  ;  and  when  one  is  weary  and  faint  with  the 
heat  of  the  day,  it  is  a  wonderful  comfort  to  come 
on  a  clear  well  of  living  water.  Tell  your  honored 
father  that  1  will  attend  to  the  matter." 

11  And  about  the  eggs  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  have  a  few  for  madame,  and  Marie  Duclas 
has  some,  I  know." 

""Who  is  this  fine  chevalier,  my  child  ?"  asked 
Jeanne,  as  I  followed  her  to  the  well-known  out- 
house where  the  hens'  nests  were.  "  Is  he  one  of 
your  English  cousins  ?" 

It  was  with  some  pride  that  I  informed  my  foster- 
mother  of  Andrew's  relation  to  myself.  Jeanne 
was  much  affected.  She  clasped  me  in  her  arms 
and  wept  over  me,  calling  me  by  every  endearing 
name  in  her  vocabulary,  now  lamenting  that  I 
should  go  so  far  away,  and  then  rejoicing  that  I 
should  be  in  safety. 

"  But,  ah,  my  lamb,  my  precious  one,  do  not  set 
thy  heart  too  strongly  upon  thy  young  bridegroom. 
Remember  what  times  of  shaking  and  separation 
these  are,  when  the  desire  of  one's  eyes  may  be 
taken  away  with  a  stroke  at  any  time.  Ah,  my  poor 
daughter — my  Lucille,  my  youngest  lamb  !  Tell 
me,  my  Vevette,  dost  thou  think  I  was  ever  unjust 
or  unkind  to  her  ?" 


i  [8  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  No,  indeed  !"  I  answered,  with  honest  indigna- 
tion, for  my  heart  burned  within  me  every  time  I 
thought  of  Lucille's  cruel  note  of  farewell.  "  No- 
body ever  had  a  better  home  or  kinder  friends.  I 
imagine  she  will  find  out  before  many  days  what 
she  has  lost." 

"  1  fear  she  will  not  be  happy,"  said  Jeanne, 
wiping  her  eyes.  "  I  had  lost  so  many  before  she 
came,  and  she  was  so  delicate  in  her  childhood  that 
I  was  always  more  careful  of  her  than  of  David,  who 
never  gave  me  an  hour's  anxiety  since  he  was  born, 
except  on  that  unlucky  day  when  he  went  to  see 
the  procession." 

"  I  do  not  believe  poor  Lucille  will  be  very  happy 
anywhere — not  unless  she  changes  her  disposition," 
said  I.  "It  seems  to  me  that  a  jealous  person 
will  always  find  something  to  torment  him.  But 
though  I  knew  she  was  discontented,  I  never  could 
have  believed  she  would  take  such  a  step.  Poor 
Lucille  !" 

"It  is  some  comfort  to  speak  of  her,"  said 
Jeanne.  "  The  father  never  mentions  her  name 
'•xcept  in  prayer.  He  feels  the  disgrace  most 
deeply.  I  must  tell  you,  my  child,  that  that  poor 
reprobate  Pierre  Le  Febre  came  here  yesterday,  and 
most  earnestly  disclaimed  having  any  hand  in  or 
knowledge  of  Lucille's  decision.  He  confessed  that 
he  loved  her,  and  would  gladly  have  married  her, 
and  then  he  broke  down  and  wept,  saying  that  he 
should  have  felt  her  death  less.  He  had  been  a  bad 
man,  but  he  had  some  human  feeling  left.  Simon 


TJie  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  \  1 9 

led  him  into  the  orchard  and  had  a  long  talk  -with 
him,  and  this  morning  they  met,  and  Pierre  told 
him  that  he  had  gone  with  poor  Isabean  before  the 
priest  and  made  her  his  wife.  So  some  good  has 
come  out  of  the  evil." 

By  this  time  Jeanne  had  set  out  some  refreshment 
for  us,  of  which  we  partook,  not  to  seem  ungracious. 
Andrew  had  been  over  the  farm  with  Father 
Simon,  and  though  his  French  was  not  the  most 
fluent  in  the  world,  and  Simon's  was  deeply  flavored 
with  patois,  they  seemed  to  get  on  together  very 
well.  I  think  two  such  manly,  honest  hearts  could 
not  fail  to  understand  each  other,  though  they  had 
not  a  word  in  common.  Andrew  could  not  say 
enough  in  praise  of  the  grand  Norman  horses  and 
the  beautiful  little  cows,  but  he  turned  up  his  nose 
at  the  buckwheat,  and  thought  that  a  great  deal 
more  might  be  made  of  the  land.  We  visited  Le- 
brun's  and  one  other  farm,  where  we  were  received 
with  the  same  welcome.  Everywhere  we  heard 
comments  on  poor  Lucille's  conduct. 

"  The  poor  Jeanne  was  too  easy  with  her.  She 
indulged  her  far  too  much,"  said  Marie  Lebrun. 
"  She  took  all  the  hardest  and  most  unpleasant  work 
on  herself,  to  spare  Lucille,  and  leave  her  time  for 
her  needlework  and  her  fine  spinning.  If  she  had 
had  to  work  as  hard  as  my  girls,  she  would  not  have 
had  so  much  time  to  indulge  her  foolish  fancies." 

"  Ah,  Marie,  it  is  easy  to  condemn,"  remarked 
her  sister  Marthe,  who  had  never  married,  and  was 
held  in  great  respect  among  us  for  her  piety  and 


I  20  77/6'  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

good  works.  "If  Jeanne  had  taken  the  opposite 
course,  people  would  have  said  it  was  because  the 
child  was  so  oppressed  that  she  left  her  father's 
house.  It  is  easy  to  say  what  might  have  been.  A 
parent  may  do  her  best,  and  yet  the  child  may  go 
wrong." 

'*  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Marie,  with  some 
complacency.  "  '  Train  up  a  child  in  the  way  he 
should  go, '  you  know. ' ' 

"  *  My  beloved  had  a  vineyard  in  a  very  fruitful 
hill,'  "  quoted  Marthe  ;  "  '  and  he  fenced  it,  and 
gathered  out  the  stones  thereof,  and  planted  it  with 
the  choicest  vine,  and  built  a  tower  in  the  midst 
thereof,  and  also  made  a  wine-press  therein  ;  and 
he  looked  that  it  should  bring  forth  grapes,  and  it 
brought  forth  wild  grapes. '  If  the  great  Lord  of 
the  vineyard  met  with  such  a  disappointment,  shall 
we  blame  the  under-gardeners  when  the  vintage 
does  not  answer  our  expectations  ?  Ah,  my  Marie, 
after  all,  that  others  can  do  for  us ;  we  must  each, 
build  our  lives  for  ourselves.  We  cannot  cast  on! 
the  responsibility  on  any  one  else." 

I  have  manva  time  thought  of  these  words  of  the 

w 

good  Marthe,  when  I  have  heard  parents  blamed 
for  the  faults  of  their  grown-up  children.  Poor 
Marthe  \  she  was  one  of  the  victims  of  the  times, 
and  died  in  prison. 

As  we  walked  homeward  Andrew  and  I  fell  into 
conversation  about  our  future  prospects.  He  told 
me  of  his  house  at  Tre  Madoc,  which  was,  however, 
his  mother's  as  long  as  she  lived  ;  of  the  increased 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  121 

«_> 

wealth  which  had  come  to  them  from  the  working 
of  a  mine  on  his  estate  ;  and  described  to  me  the 
old  house  and  its  surroundings  till  I  could  almost 
see  it.  Then  he  asked  me  frankly,  in  his  sailor 
fashion,  whether  1  liked  him,  and  whether  I  thought 
I  could  be  happy  with  him  ;  to  which  I  answered, 
with  equal  frankness. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not,  cousin — :that  is, 
if  your  mother  will  be  kind  to  me." 

"You  need  not  fear  that,"  answered  Andrew. 
"  She  is  kindness  itself,  and  my  sisters  are  good 
merry  girls.  But  about  myself. ' ' 

"  I  like  you  very  much,"  I  answered,  with  true 
Gorman  bluntness,  "  and  I  am  glad  you  came  here. 
1  wish  you  were  going  to  stay.  It  is  as  nice  as  hav- 
ing an  own  brother." 

To  my  surprise  Andrew  did  not  seem  at  all 
pleased  with  this  remark  of  mine.  He  colored, 
muttered  something  between  his  teeth  about 
brothers  which  did  not  sound  very  complimentary, 
and  was  rather  silent  during  the  rest  of  our  walk. 
Afterward,  from  something  I  caught,  I  fancy  he  had 
been  speaking  of  the  matter  to  my  mother,  for  I 
heard  her  say, 

' '  You  are  too  precipitate,  my  son.  Think  how 
young  the  child  is,  and  how  carefully  she  has  been 
brought  up.  You  must  trust  to  time  and  your  own 
merits  for  the  growth  of  a  wanner  feeling." 

Andrew  has  since  told  me  that  he  loved  me  from 
the  very  first  time  he  heard  me  speak.  How  long 
and  steadfastly  that  love  endured,  through  evil  and 


122  The  Chevaliers  Daiighter. 

good  report,  hoping  against  hope,  triumphing  over 
danger  and  distance,  it  must  be  mine  to  tell,  though 
the  story  is  not  much  to  mine  own  credit. 

That  night  about  eleven  o'clock,  after  all  the 
younger  servants  had  gone  to  bed,  my  motlier  and 
myself,  with  the  pastor,  wrapped  in  our  long  black 
cloaks,  stole  forth  in  the  darkness.  My  father  and 
Andrew  had  gone  away  on  horseback  early  in  the 
afternoon,  ostensibly  to  Avranches,  but  we  knew 
we  should  find  them  waiting  for  us  at  the  appointed 
place.  We  dared  not  take  a  lantern  lest  it  should 
betray  us,  but  found  our  way,  by  the  stars  and  the 
cold  diffused  light  of  an  aurora,  to  the  little  rocky 
dell  in  the  midst  of  the  fields  where  stood  the  lonely 
grange.  It  was  a  great  rambling  stone  building, 
very  old,  but  strong  still.  Nobody  knew  when  or 
for  what  purpose  it  had  been  first  erected,  but  my 
father  believed  it  to  be  of  great  antiquity.  It  was 
not  much  used  at  present,  save  for  a  storehouse  for 
grain  and  cider,  but  the  old  Luchons  lived  in  two 
tolerably  comfortable  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  of 
the  old  tower.  The  walk  had  been  long  and  rough 
for  us  all,  and  especially  for  my  mother,  and  we 
were  not  sorry  to  see  the  tower  standing  dark  against 
the  sky,  and  to  meet  the  challenge  of  our  outposts  ; 
for  at  all  our  meetings  we  had  our  sentinels  and  our 
pass-words.  My  father  and  Andrew  were  on  the 
lookout  for  us,  and  Andrew  nearly  crushed  my 
hand  off  in  the  fervor  of  his  joy  at  finding  me  safe. 

We  passed  though  the  ol.l  Luchons'  kitchen  into 
the  great  room  or  hall  which  occupied  the  center  of 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  123 

the  building,  and  which  was  crowded  with  empty 
casks  and  sheaves  of  grain.  Threading  our  way 
amid  these  obstructions,  which  would  have  appeared 
impenetrable  to  any  one  not  in  the  secret,  we 
descended  a  flight  of  stairs  to  the  vault,  where  most 
of  our  brethren  were  assembled.  A  rude  platform 
was  built  up  at  one  end,  before  which  stood  a 
small  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth.  The  con- 
gregation consisted  of  several  of  the  neighboring 
farmers  and  some  of  the  poorer  laborers  with  their 
wives,  and  now  and  then  a  grown-up  son  or 
daughter,  and  a  few  tradespeople  and  fishermen 
from  Granville,  who  had  run  a  double  danger  to 
break  the  bread  of  life  once  more.  The  only  gen- 
try beside  ourselves  were  the  Le  Roys,  from  near 
Sartilly,  who  had  brought  their  child  for  baptism. 
Not  one  of  the  family  is  alive  now.  Of  that  little 
company,  more  than  half  witnessed  for  their  faith 
on  the  scaffold  or  under  the  muskets  of  their  ene- 
mies. I  suppose  so  many  of  the  Religion  could  not 
now  be  gathered  in  all  Normandy. 

It  was  touching  to  see  the  joy  of  the  poor  people 
at  having  a  pastor  once  more.  Many  of  them  had 
seen  Monsieur  Bertheau  before.  These  crowded 
round  him,  and  happy  was  the  man  or  woman  who 
could  obtain  a  grasp  of  his  hand  or  a  word  from 
his  lips.  But  there  was  little  time  to  be  spent  in 
friendly  greetings.  The  congregation  took  their 
places,  and  the  service  began. 

When  I  shut  my  eyes,  how  vividly  the  whole 
scene  comes  before  me — the  rough  \rault,  but  dimly 


124  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

lighted  by  a  few  wax  torches  ;  the  earnest,  calm 
face  and  silver  hair  of  the  pastor  ;  the  solemn,  atten- 
tive congregation,  the  old  people  occupying  the 
front  rank,  that  their  dull  ears  might  not  lose  a 
word  ;  Monsieur  and  Madame  Le  Roy,  with  their 
beautiful  babe  wrapped  in  a  white  cashmere  shawl. 
I  can  smell  the  scent  of  the  apples  and  the  hay 
mingled  with  the  earthy,  mouldy  smell  of  the  vault, 
and  hear  the  melodious  voice,  trembling  a  little 
with  age,  as  the  old  man  read  : 

"  I  will  not  leave  you  comfortless  :  I  will  come 
to  you." 

"  If  the  world  hate  you,  ye  know  that  it  hated 
me  before  it  hated  you." 

I  think  no  one  can  fully  understand  these  words 
who  has  not  heard  them  under  circumstances  of 
danger,  or  at  least  of  sorrow.  Andrew  was  deeply 
affected  by  them  ;  and  when  the  little  lily-white 
babe  was  brought  forward  for  baptism,  he  put 
down  his  head  and  almost  sobbed  aloud.  My 
father  had  been  somewhat  unwilling  to  have  him 
run  the  risk  of  attending  the  meeting,  but  he  had 
insisted,  and  he  told  me  afterward,  and  has  often 
told  me  since,  that  he  would  not  have  missed  it  for 
anything.  I  know  that  the  service  was  greatly 
blessed  to  my  own  heart,  and  for  a  long  time  after- 
ward I  was  quite  a  different  creature — 1  may  say, 
indeed,  for  all  my  life,  since,  though  for  a  time 
choked  by  the  thorns  of  this  world,  the  seed  sown 
that  night  always  remained,  and  at  last,  as  I  hope, 
has  bome  some  fruit  to  the  sower. 


Chevaliers  Daughter.  125 

Our  meeting  was  not  to  pass  off  without  an 
alarm.  The  pastor  had  just  finished  distributing 
the  bread  and  wine  when  one  of  the  lookouts  came 
down  to  say  that  he  had  heard  a  distant  sound  like 
the  galloping  of  horses,  which  drew  nearer  every 
moment.  All  were  at  once  on  the  alert.  The 
lights  were  extinguished  below,  and  also  in  the 
kitchen  above.  Another  great  cellar  opened  from 
the  one  we  were  in,  and  here,  since  there  was  no  time 
to  get  away,  we  hid  ourselves,  waiting  in  breath- 
less suspense,  but  calm  and  collected,  for  whatever 
might  be  coming.  The  very  youngest  children 
never  uttered  a  cry  or  whimper,  and  the  only  sound 
heard  was  a  whispered  prayer  or  encouragement 
passed  from  one  to  another.  But  oh  how  welcome 
was  the  voice  which  announced  that  the  alarm  was 
a  false  one  !  A  herd  of  young  horses  had  broken 
from  their  pasture  and  rushed  abroad  over  the 
fields,  scared,  perhaps,  by  some  stray  wolf.  It  was 
thought  best  to  break  up  our  gathering  at  once, 
and  exchanging  short  but  earnest  farewells  we  all 
reached  our  homes  in  safety.  Several  of  the  old 
people,  worn  out  by  the  fatigue  and  agitation,  died 
within  a  short  time,  and  the  sweet  babe  only  sur- 
vived its  baptism  for  a  few  weeks.  Happy  child  ! 
to  be  taken  in  its  innocence  from  the  evil  to  come. 

The  next  night  the  pastor  left  us.  He  went  out 
in  a  fishing-boat,  hoping  to  meet  an  English  ship 
which  was  expected  off  the  coast,  but  the  ship  was 
detained  by  contrary  winds.  A  sudden  storm  came 
up,  and  the  boat  was  capsized.  With  him  were  two 


i  26  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

sailors,  sons  of  a  widow  in  the  little  village  from 
which  he  embarked.  One  perished  ;  the  other  was 
picked  up  and  carried  to  Jersey,  where  he  lay  long 
ill  of  a  fever.  But  he  recovered  at  last,  and  it  was 
from  him  we  heard  the  story. 


CHAPTEK    VII. 


A     SUDDEN     SUMMONS. 

about  a  fortnight  or  more  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  pastor  we  had  a  very  quiet, 
pleasant  time.  The  weather  was  lovely, 
and  we  made  long  excursions  out  of  doors. 
We  gathered  apples  and  quinces,  and  hunted  for 
herbs  and  flowers,  for  Andrew  wras  a  good  deal  of  an 
herbalist  (a  botanist,  I  think  they  call  it  now,  though 
I  am  sure  herbalist  is  the  prettier  word),  and  he  was 
in  correspondence  with  some  learned  gentleman  in 
London  on  the  subject  of  plants.  lie  told  me  many 
things  about  flowers  that  I  had  never  known  or 
dreamed  of  before,  showing  me  the  several  parts  of 
the  blossom,  the  leaves,  and  roots,  by  means  cf  a 
pocket  magnifying-glass  which  he  always  carried 
about  him.  lie  read  to  my  mother  and  myself  as  we 
sat  at  our  embroidery  or  spinning,  and  he  held  end- 
less gossips  with  my  mother  about  old  families  in 
Cornwall  and  Devonshire,  and  people  and  places  she 
used  to  know.  I  listened  with  great  interest  to  these 
tales,  for  I  had  begun  now  to  look  upon  Tre  Madoc 
as  my  future  home,  and  any  detail  concerning  it  was 


128  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

of  interest  to  me.  1  was  growing  more  and  more 
fond  of  my  cousin  all  the  time,  and  the  image  of 
Lord  Percy  had  quite  ceased  to  haunt  my  imagina- 
tion. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  ever  spent  two  happier 
weeks  in  all  my  life.  For  one  tiling,  I  was  at 
peace  with  myself.  The  events  of  the  last  month 
had  aroused  my  conscience  and  wakened  the  relig- 
ious principles  implanted  by  education  to  new  life. 
I  laid  aside  the  dreams  of  worldly  pleasure  and  am 
bition,  which  usually  occupied  so  much  cf  my  time, 
and  kept  my  conscience  in  a  state  of  chronic  dis- 
comfort, and  I  really  did  begin  to  experience  some 
of  those  higher  and  holier  joys  of  which  poor  Lu- 
cille had  spoken  in  that  memorable  conference  of 
ours.  True,  we  were  still  under  the  power  of  our 
enemies — still  in  danger  at  any  time  of  losing 
liberty  and  life.  But  one  becomes  used  to  danger 
as  to  everything  else,  and  somehow  to  me  the  pres- 
ence of  my  cousin  seemed  a  protection,  though  if  I 
had  been  asked  why,  I  could  not  have  told  for  my 
life. 

Andrew  was  very  earnest  with  my  parents  to  con- 
sent to  our  being  married  immediately.  lie  said, 
and  with  some  show  of  reason,  that  lie  should  then 
have  the  right  to  protect  me,  whatever  happened, 
and  that  the  fact  of  my  father's  daughter  having 
married  a  British  subject  might  be  some  advantage 
to  him.  This,  however,  my  father  doubted.  He 
had  no  idea  that  the  English  government  would 
quarrel  with  Louis  on  any  such  frivolous  pretext. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  1 29 

Both  lie  and  my  mother  were  opposed  to  such  early 
marriages,  though  they  were  common  enough  at 
the  time,  and  moreover  they  wished  to  learn  a  little 
more  about  Andrew  before  giving  their  only  child 
wholly  into  his  hands.  So  the  matter  was  post- 
poned for  an  indefinite  time. 

Of  course  I  should  have  acquiesced  in  any  ar- 
rangement made  by  my  honored  parents,  and  I  do 
not  think  I  should  have  found  any  difficulty  in 
doing  so,  for,  as  I  have  said,  I  liked  Andrew  better 
and  better  every  day.  But  my  heart  had  not 
awaked  to  love  in  its  highest  sense.  I  looked  upon 
Andrew  as  a  big  brother,  very  nice  to  play  with, 
and  to  order  about,  but  that  was  all.  I  had,  besides, 
very  high  though  very  indefinite  notions  of  the 
duties  and  responsibilities  of  a  married  woman,  and 
dreaded  assuming  them,  all  the  more  because  my 
mind  was  more  awakened  to  a  sense  of  duty  than  it 
had  ever  been  before.  On  the  whole  I  very  much 
preferred  to  let  matters  remain  as  they  were. 

The  feast  of  St.  Michael  occurred  during  An- 
drew's stay,  and  it  was  to  be  celebrated  with  more 
pomp  than  usual.  The  new  cure  was  very  zealous 
in  beating  up  for  pilgrims  to  the  shrine,  and,  as  we 
heard,  preached  more  than  one  sermon  on  the  sub- 
ject. We  had  had  a  bad  harvest  that  year  of  every- 
thing but  apples,  and  the  fishing  had  been  unusu- 
ally unsuccessful.  This  the  cure  attributed  to  the 
anger  of  our  great  patron,  St.  Michael,  because  his 
feast  day  had  been  neglected  of  late,  owing — so  he 
said,  though  I  don't  think  it  was  true — to  the  influ- 


130  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

ence  of  the  heretics  who  were  allowed  to  defile  the 
holy  soil  of  La  Manche  with  their  presence  ;  and 
lie  threatened  the  people  with  still  severer  judg- 
ments unless  the  great  archangel  were  appeased  by 
a  grand  pilgrimage,  and  by  the  purification  of  the 
holy  soil  before  mentioned. 

"  St.  Michael  must  have  been  rather  astonished 
at  the  acts  attributed  to  him,  if  he  happened  to  be 
anywhere  in  the  neighborhood,"  said  Andrew  ;  but 
rny  father  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  no  laughing  matter,"  said  he.  "  We  have 
lived  in  great  peace  with  our  Roman  Catholic  neigh- 
bors, under  the  rule  of  the  last  cure,  who  was  a  kind- 
hearted  old  man,  much  fonder  of  his  garden  and 
orchard  than  of  his  breviary  ;  but  this  new  priest  is 
of  a  different  type.  He  is  doing  his  best  to  arouse 
the  fanaticism  of  the  peasants,  and  especially  of  the 
lower  and  more  debased  class.  I  do  not  believe  he 
would  hesitate  to  hold  out,  as  an  inducement,  the 
plunder  of  the  tower." 

"  Would  he  dare  do  that  ?"  asked  Andrew. 

"It  has  been  done  in  a  hundred  instances," 
answered  my  father.  "It  is  no  lower  motive  than 
that  of  relieving  a  man  of  the  payment  of  his  honest 
debts,  on  condition  of  his  returning  to  the  bosom  of 
the  church,  and  that  has  been  done  by  a  public 
edict." 

"  And  this  is  the  king  who  must  not  be  resisted, 
because,  forsooth,  he  is  the  Lord's  anointed  !"  said 
Andrew,  with  that  peculiar  flash  of  his  gray  eye,  like 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  131 

sunlight  reflected  from  bright    armor,  that  I  had 
learned  to  know  so  well. 

"  The  king  is  governed  by  his  counsellors,"  said 
my  father. 

"  As  to  that,"  answered  Andrew,  "  he  does  not 
seem  to  be  very  much  governed  by  his  counsellors 
in  the  matter  of  his  building  and  gambling  expenses, 
and — some  other  things, ' '  catching  a  warning  glance 
from  my  mother.  "  I  thought  he  made  a  boast 
that  he  was  the  state.  As  to  his  being  deceived, 
why  does  he  not  find  out  for  himself  ?  Things  are 
no  better  in  Paris  than  here.  How  can  he  be 
ignorant  of  what  happens  under  his  very  nose  ?" 

"  Yery  easily,  my  son.  A  good  many  things 
happen  under  the  very  nose  of  His  Majesty  King 
Charles  of  Engbni  which  do  not  seem  to  make 
much  impression  on  his  mind,"  said  my  father,  a 
little  testily.  He  had  his  full  share  of  that  unrea- 
soning loyalty — unreasonable,  too,  as  I  think — which 
possessed  all  France,  Protestant  and  Catholic,  at  that 
time.  "  TTe  have  all  heard  how  the  king  was  en- 
gaged the  night  that  the  Dutch  sailed  up  the  river. 
You  cannot  propose  him  as  a  model,  nephew  !" 

"I  never  said  he  was,"  answered  Andrew  dryly, 
and  then  the  conversation  stopped. 

The  next  morning  I  went  out  very  early  into  the 
lane  to  look  for  a  pair  of  scissors  which  I  had  dropped 
the  day  before,  when  I  was  joined  by  my  cousin. 

"  Yevette,"  said  he,  "is  there  no  place  from 
which  we  can  view  this  procession  in  safety  ?  I 
have  a  great  curiosity  about  it." 


132  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  can  do  so  from  the  top  of  the  rock 
at  the  end  of  our  lane,  if  you  like,"  I  answered. 
"  But  we  must  make  haste  thither,  for  they  will 
soon  be  on  their  way." 

I  was  all  the  more  ready  for  the  adventure  as  I 
hoped  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  Lucille. 

We  were  soon  safely  hidden  among  the  tall  bushes 
and  wild  vines  which  covered  the  top  of  the  rock, 
but  not  too  soon,  for  we  were  hardly  settled  before 
the  head  of  the  procession  appeared  in  sight.  It 
had  been  joined  by  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  Nor- 
mandy, and  looked  b'ke  a  little  army.  The  cross- 
bearer  came  first,  as  usual,  then  a  company  of  priests, 
loudly  chanting  as  they  walked,  then  banners  with- 
out number,  and  I  know  not  what  devices  besides  of 
images  and  angels  and  what  not.  Then  came  a 
company  of  women,  headed  by  the  nuns  from  the 
hospital,  each  leading  by  the  hand  one  of  the  new 
converts,  as  they  were  called,  in  bitter  derision.  The 
poor  little  Luchon  was  there,  pale  and  thin  as 
a  shadow.  Her  wasted  hand  held  a  rosary  like 
the  rest,  but  it  drooped  listlessly  by  her  side. 
Either  the  sad-faced  nun  who  led  her  by  the  other 
hand  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  have  a  public 
contest  with  her,  or  she  had  tried  and  failed,  for  she 
did  not  interfere  with  the  child,  and,  I  even  fancied, 
looked  at  her  with  an  eye  of  pity.  Lucille  was  one 
of  the  last.  I  saw  in  a  moment  that  she  was  at  least 
no  happier  than  she  had  been  at  home,  for  the  dark 
sliade  was  on  her  face  which  I  knew  so  well.  How- 
ever, she  was  telling  her  beads  as  diligently  as  the 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  133 

best  of  them.  As  she  passed  the  foot  of  the  rock 
she  looked  up.  I  had  ventured  a  little  nearer  the 
edge  than  was  quite  prudent,  and  our  eyes  met  for 
a  moment.  She  made  me  a  warning  sign,  and  then 
a  bitter  smile  curled  her  lips,  and  she  pressed  to 
them  with  fervor  the  crucifix  attached  to  her  rosary. 
Her  companion  looked  up  also,  but  saw  nothing,  as 
I  had  shrunk  back  from  my  dangerous  position. 
That  was  the  last  time  I  saw  my  old  playmate  for 
many  a  long  day,  though  I  heard  from  her  once  or 
twice,  as  I  have  reason  to  remember. 

There  were  more  banners  and  more  pilgrims,  but 
I  saw  none  of  them.  I  had  retreated  to  the  back 
of  the  cliff  and  thrown  myself  down  on  the  moss  in 
a  fit  of  bitter  weeping.  I  had  loved  Lucille  dearly, 
despite  our  many  quarrels,  and  I  believe  she  loved 
me  as  much  as  her  self-absorbed  nature  would  let  her 
love  any  one.  Hers  was  an  asking  lovre,  always 
thinking  more  of  what  it  was  to  get  than  of  what  it 
had  to  give. 

Andrew  was  so  absorbed  in  the  spectacle  that  he 
did  not  miss  me  till  all  were  past,  and  when  he  came 
to  find  me  he  was  frightened  at  my  agitation.  It 
was  some  time  before  I  could  even  be  got  to  move 
or  speak.  Andrew  brought  me  water  in  a  little 
driiiking-cup  he  always  carried,  fanned  me,  and 
soothed  me  with  the  greatest  tenderness,  and  at  last 
I  was  able  to  tell  him  the  story. 

"  Then  that  was  the  girl  who  looked  up,"  said 
he.  "I  thought  there  was  something  peculiar 
about  her.  She  docs  not  look  very  happy  with  her 


134  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

new  friends.  I  wonder  what  they  will  do  with 
her?" 

"Make  a  nun  of  her,  if  they  can  squeeze  her 
dowry  out  of  Father  Simon,  or  perhaps  marry  her 
up  to  some  one,"  I  answered.  "  Julienne's  sister 
says  the  Le  Febres  are  very  angry  with  Pierre  for 
marrying  his  old  sweetheart  Isabeau,  when  he  might 
have  waited  and  taken  Lucille  and  her  farm." 

"  But  the  farm  is  her  father's,  and  will  descend  to 
her  brother,  won't  it  ?"  asked  Andrew  in  surprise. 
"  Did  you  not  tell  me  she  had  a  brother  who  was 
expected  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  foster-brother,  David.  You  will  like 
him,  I  am  sure.  But  he  is  of  the  Religion,  like  his 
father,  and  if  Lucille  should  marry  a  Catholic*  the 
law  would  find  some  way  of  handing  the  farm  over 
to  him,  though  David  is  honest  and  industrious,  and 
Pierre  is  a  bit  of  a  reprobate.  I  hope  David  will 
come  ;  I  should  like  you  to  see  him." 

"  Pierre  may  be  a  bit  of  a  reprobate,  but  he  is  a 
good  bit  of  a  man  as  well,"  said  Andrew.  "  I  saw 
him  give  that  great  hulking  Antoine  Michaud  a 
blow  that  knocked  him  flat  because  he  insulted  that 
poor  old  woman  whose  grandchildren  were  taken 
away  from  her." 

(I  forgot  to  mention  that  poor  old  Gran'mere 
Luchon  had  been  allowed  to  return  to  her  cotton. 
being,  I  suppose,  too  small  game  to  be  worth  the 


*  I  do  not  like  to  uee  Catholic  in  this  sense,  but  we  were  in  a 
manner  forced  to  it  at  that  time. — Q.  C. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  135 

bagging,  or  perhaps  with  the  hope  of  catching  gome 
one  else  by  her  means.) 

"  He  knows  how  to  sail  a  boat,  too,"  continued 
Andrew.  "  I  went  out  with  him  yesterday,  and  I 
never  saw  a  boat  better  handled,  though  it  is  a  hor- 
rid old  tub,  too.  Such  a  fellow  ought  to  be  a  soldier 
or  sailor.  Many  a  man  has  made  a  good  record  on 
shipboard  who  would  never  do  anything  for  him- 
self." 

"  I  hope  he  will  be  good  to  poor  Isabeau,"  said 
I.  "  But  come,  Andrew,  we  must  go  home." 

TTe  had  been  sitting  all  this  time  on  the  top  of  the 
rock,  in  the  very  place  where  Lucille  had  cleared  a 
spot  for  her  spindle.  As  we  rose  we  both  cast  a 
glance  over  the  landscape. 

' '  There  is  going  to  be  a  storm, ' '  said  I.  ' '  See 
how  the  sea-birds  are  all  flying  to  shore,  and  how  the 
fog  is  beginning  to  creep  in  from  the  sea.  I  am 
glad  I  am  not  going  to  cross  the  Greves  this  day. 
Some  one  is  sure  to  go  astray  and  be  lost." 

"  Browned  by  the  tide  ?"  asked  Andrew. 

"  Yes,  or  more  likely  sucked  under  by  the  quick- 
sands, which  extend  themselves  very  much  at  times. 
There  is  hardly  ever  a  great  pilgrimage  but  some 
one  is  lost.  Come,  we  must  be  going.  My  mother 
will  wonder  where  we  are." 

The  storm  I  had  predicted  came  on  later  in  the 
day,  just  in  time  to  catch  many  of  the  returning  pil- 
grims, and  several  were  drowned,  among  them,  as 
we  heard,  the  poor  little  Suchon  and  the  nun  who 
had  her  in  charge. 


136  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"  One  cannot  be  sorry  for  the  child,"  remarked 
my  father  when  he  heard  the  news.  "  She  has 
ecsaped  a  great  deal." 

"Nor  for  her  companion  either,  if  there  be  any 
truth  in  looks,"  said  Andrew.  "I  never  saw  a 
sadder,  more  hopeless  face.  Did  you  not  notice  it, 
Yevette?" 

"  I  did,"  I  answered.  "  I  noticed,  too,  that  she 
looked  compassionately  on  the  poor  child,  and  did 
not  try  to  force  her  to  tell  her  beads,  like  some  of 
the  others." 

"  This  storm  is  an  unlucky  thing  for  us,"  said 
my  mother.  "  I  can  see  well  how  it  will  be  used 
to  excite  the  people  more  and  more  against  us. 
Armand,  when  shall  we  leave  this  place,  and  put 
our  children  and  ourselves  in  safety  ?' ' 

"As  soon  as  Mrs.  Grace  is  able  to  travel," 
answered  my  father.  "  We  could  not  leave  her 
behind,  or  take  her  along  at  present.  I  trust 
another  month  will  see  us  in  England.  I  would 
not  leave  my  people  so  long  as  my  presence  was 
any  protection  to  them,  but  I  think,  as  things  are 
now,  they  would  be  better  without  me." 

"  Could  not  your  brother  in  Paris  secure  you  a 
protection  from  the  king  ?"  asked  Andrew.  "  He 
seems  to  be  a  great  courtier,  and  greatly  in  favor. " 

"  So  great  a  courtier  that  he  would  not  risk  a 
frown  from  the  king  to  save  my  whole  family  from 
destruction,"  answered  my  father  dryly.  "No, 
there  is  nothing  to  hope  and  everything  to  fear 
from  attracting  the  notice  of  any  one  about  the 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter,  137 

king.  I  have  looked  the  matter  all  over,  and  tried 
to  gain  every  light  on  the  subject  that  I  was  able," 
continued  my  father  gravely;  "I  have  also  asked 
counsel  of  such  of  our  pastors  as  I  have  been  able 
to  meet  with,  and  my  mind  is  made  up.  So  soon 
us  Grace  is  able  to  travel  we  must  endeavor  to 
escape.  So,  my  wife  and  daughter,  you  must  pack 
up  your  valuables  and  necessaries  in  the  smallest 
possible  compass,  and  keep  the  bundles  where  you 
can  lay  your  hands  upon  them  at  any  moment. 
But  mind,  the  necessaries  must  be  reduced  to  the 
lowest  point,"  he  added,  with  that  sorrowful  smile 
I  had  learned  to  know  so  well.  "  Yevette  cannot 
carry  her  story  books  nor  her  carved  wheel, 
nor  madame  her  rose-bushes  or  her  poultry,  or 
Mrs.  Grace  her  precious  marmalade.  A  very 
few  clothes  and  the  jewels  and  a  little  money  are 
all  we  can  take  with  us. ' ' 

These  words  fell  coldly  upon  my  ear  and  heart. 
I  was  familiar  enough  with  the  idea  of  flight,  but  I 
had  not  realized  that  flight  meant  leaving  behind  all 
my  most  cherished  possessions — my  beloved  books, 
my  lute,  my  pet  cows,  all  that  I  treasured  most.  I 
went  up  to  my  pretty  little  room,  and,  sitting  down, 
I  wept  as  if  my  heart  would  break  for  a  while. 
Then  I  knelt  down  and  prayed,  with  all  sincerity 
and  earnestness,  that  I  might  have  grace  cheerfully 
to  abandon  all  I  had,  yea  and  mine  own  life  also,  if 
need  be,  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven's  sake  ;  and 
after  a  while,  feeling  comforted  and  strengthened,  I 
arose  and  began  looking  over  my  possessions,  to  see 


138  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

what  should  betaken  and  what  left.  I  do  not  think 
that  in  this  I  was  foolish  or  even  childish.  It  is 
not  seldom  that  very  little  things  bring  home  to 
us  the  bitterness  of  grief.  I  have  seen  a  lady  who 
was  perfectly  cool,  collected,  and  sweet-tempered 
through  all  the  dangers  of  a  terrible  storm  and  ship- 
wreck and  the  miseries  of  dreadful  sea-sickness, 
protracted  for  weeks,  break  down  in  an  agony  of 
grief  because  the  little  dog  she  had  brought  from 
France  was  swept  overboard  from  the  wreck  in 
which  she  might  herself  go  down  at  any  moment. 

But  poor  Mrs.  Grace  was  destined  to  take  a  longer 
journey  than  that  we  proposed,  and  to  find  a  refuge 
where  neither  danger  nor  home-sickness  can  enter — 
where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the 
weary  are  at  rest.  She  had  been  for  several  weeks 
confined  to  her  bed.  One  day  my  father  and 
mother,  Andrew  and  myself  set  out  for  a  long  walk 
over  the  domain.  It  was  rather  a  silent  and  sor- 
rowful expedition,  for,  though  no  one  said  so,  we 
all  felt  that  it  might  be  a  last  farewell.  We  called 
at  Simon  Sablot's  farm,  and  my  father  confided  to 
Simon  certain  weighty  deposits  and  an  important 
secret  concerning  his  own  affairs,  and  told  him 
where  certain  valuable  packages  would  be  found  in 
case  he  should  be  obliged  to  send  for  them.  I 
should  say  that  for  several  nights  my  father  and 
Andrew  had  been  busily  occupied  in  conveying  to 
places  of  safety  so  much  of  our  stock  of  plate  as 
could  be  removed  without  suspicion.  This  was  the 
more  easy  because  we  used  very  little  silver  every 


The  CJicvalicrs  Daughter.  139 

day,  the  rest  being  secured  in  a  strong  closet 
which  opened  from  my  father's  room.  We  went 
through  the  orchards  and  the  little  vineyard,  visited 
the  old  people  at  the  lonely  grange,  walked  through 
the  chestnut  wood  and  filled  onr  pockets  with  the 
nuts,  which  were  just  ripening  and  falling.* 

"  There  is  a  fine  harvest  of  chestnuts  at  least," 
said  my  mother,  sighing.  "  I  hope  some  one  will 
be  the  better  for  them. ' ' 

My  father  pressed  the  hand  that  lay  on  his  arm, 
but  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  The  mo- 
ment was  an  unspeakably  bitter  one  to  him.  He 
had  taken  great  pains  with  his  estate,  and  had  laid 
out  much  money  in  improvements,  not  only  for  his 
own  profit  but  still  more  for  the  good  of  his  ten- 
ants. Every  field  and  tree  and  vine,  yea,  every 
bush  and  stone,  was  dear  to  his  heart,  and  though 
he  did  not  hesitate — no,  not  for  a  moment,  when  he 
had  to  choose  between  these  things  and  the  kingdom 
of  heaven — yet  he  could  not  but  feel  the  wrench 
when  he  had  to  tear  himself  away  from  them.  I 
sometimes  fear,  in  these  days  when  the  church  and 
the  world  are  so  mixed  together  that  it  is  rather 
hard  to  see  any  division  line  between  them,  that 
people  will  utterly  lose  the  meaning  of  such  places 
of  Scripture  as  the  tenth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew. 

We  had  not  reached  the  tower  when  Julienne  cajne 
running  to  meet  us,  her  face  as  pale  as  her  cap. 

*  The  fine  chestnut-tree  at  the  south  end  of  the  house  i3 
from  one  of  these  nuts.  •  I  trust  no  one  will  ever  cut  it 
down.— G.  C. 


140  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  you  are  come,  maclame  !"  said 
she  breathlessly.  "  I  have  sent  everywhere  for 
you.  Mamselle  Grace  has  had  a  swoon,  and  we  can- 
not bring  her  to  herself." 

"  A  swoon  ?  How  was  that  ?"  asked  my  mother,. 
as  we  all  quickened  our  steps.  "  I  thought  she  was 
feeling  very  well  this  morning." 

"  She  was,  madame  ;  but  you  were  no  sooner  out 
of  the  house  than  she  would  make  me  help  her  up 
and  dress  her,  and  she  has  been  up  ever  since.  She 
would  even  walk  into  your  room,  leaning  on  my 
arm,  and  sat  there  while  I  dusted  the  furniture, 
though  I  had  dusted  it  all  not  more  than  an  hour 
before,"  said  Julienne,  in  an  aggrieved  voice. 
"  Then  she  would  have  her  work-basket  and  darn 
a  cambric  ruffle  of  monsieur's,  and  all  I  could  say 
she  would  not  lie  down.  I  assure  inaddme  that  I 
did  my  best  to  persuade  her." 

"  I  doubt  it  not,  my  good  Julienne  ;  but  what 
then  ?" 

"  Then,  just  as  the  bell  rang  for  noon,  she  said  she 
felt  tired,  and  would  lie  down.  I  called  Marie  and 
Annette,  for  I  saw  she  looked  dreadfully  ill ;  but 
we  had  not  got  her  on  the  bed  before  she  fainted, 
and  we  cannot  get  a  sign  of  life  from  her  any  more 
than  if  she  were  dead.  So  1  sent  for  madame. " 

We  had  reached  the  tower  by  that  time,  and  my 
mother  ran  up-stairs  to  Mrs.  Grace's  room,  closely 
followed  by  myself.  Though  I  had  never,  to  my 
knowledge,  seen  death  before,  I  knew,  the  moment  I 
set  eyes  upon  Grace,  what  had  happened.  People 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  141 

talk  of  death  and  sleep  being  alike,  but  I  can  never 
see  the  resemblance.  We  tried  a  long  time  and  in 
every  way  to  bring  back  animation,  but  it  was  of 
no  use,  and  we  soon  came  to  perceive  that  our 
good  faithful  friend  had  left  us  forever. 

I  cannot  describe  my  mother's  grief  on  the  occa- 
sion. Grace  had  been  her  own  personal  attendant 
ever  since  she  could  remember.  She  had  been 
taken  into  my  grandmother's  nursery  a  little  mai<J 
of  nine  years  old,  and  had  been  specially  assigned 
to  my  mother.  She  had  followed  her  mistress  to  * 
strange  land,  had  been  with  her  through  all  her  ill. 
health  and  the  loss  of  her  many  children,  had  been 
nurse,  friend,  companion,  and  servant,  all  in  one. 
I  loved  Grace  dearly,  lamented  her  deeply  ;  bul 
the  event  was  not  to  me  what  it  was  to  my  mother 

However,  she  was  gone,  and  there  was  an  end. 
The  servants  wept,  too,  as  they  prepared  her  bod} 
for  the  grave.  They  forgot  all  the  scoldings  sh» 
had  given  them,  and  only  remembered  how  she 
had  nursed  them  in  sickness,  and  the  numberless 
kindnesses  she  had  shown  them  and  their  friends  at 
home. 

"I  was  vexed  enough  at  her  this  morning," 
sobbed  Julienne,  who,  as  a  bit  of  a  slattern,  and 
especially  as  being  guilty  of  the  crowning  enormity 
of  having  a  sweetheart,  most  frequently  fell  under 
the  displeasure  of  Mrs.  Grace  ;  "  but  I  am  sure  I 
would  dust  all  the  furniture  of  the  house  thrice 
over  if  it  would  do  her  any  good." 

"  And  what  will  madame    do    without    her  ?'T 


v" 
A 


142  TJie  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

asked  Marie.  "  Nobody  can  know  her  ways  like 
Mamselle  Grace,  though  there. are  perhaps  otherv 
who  can  govern  the  household  as  well,  or  even  bet- 
ter. I  always  thought  she  was  very  wasteful  of 
sugar  and  honey  in  preserving  the  fruits." 

"  Yes,  you  would  like  them  as  sour  as  last  year's 
cider,"  retorted  Julienne.  "  Mainselle  Grace  was 
not  a  skinflint,  whatever  else  she  was." 

"  "WTiat  will  you  do  about  the  funeral?"  asked 
Andrew  of  my  father.  "  Shall  you  send  to  Gran- 
ville  or  Avranches  for  an  undertaker  ?" 

"No  indeed  !"  answered  my  father.  "  I  have 
given  special  orders  to  the  servants  not  to  say  a 
word  about  poor  Grace's  death.  It  would  be  sure 
to  bring  down  upon  us  a  visitation.  Mathew  is 
making  her  a  coffin  now,  and  we  must  place  the 
body  in  the  vault  beneath  the  chapel,  as  soon  as 
may  be — this  very  night,  if  possible.  There  she 
may  perhaps  rest  in  peace.  I  would  not,  if  L  could 
help  it,  have  my  poor  old  friend's  body  thrown  out 
into  a  ditch  like  a  dead  dog." 

"  They  would  not  dare  to  do  it,"  said  Andrew, 
aghast. 

"  They  would  be  sure  to  do  it,"  was  my  father's 
answer.  "  Things  have  nc":  '  ..proved  since  the 
Duke  of  Guise  kicked  the  dead  face  of  brave  old 
Coligny.  If  it  were  only  the  dead  who  were  warred 
upon  it  would  not  be  so  much  matter." 

And  yet  somehow  an  insult  to  the  dead  seems 
aser  and  more  cowardly  than  one  offered  to  the 
living,"  said  Andrew  thoughtfully.    "  Many  a  rude 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          143 

fellow  who  would  knock  a  man  down  as  soon  as  look 
at  him,  as  we  say,  would  be  horrified  at  any  rough 
treatment  of  a  corpse.  Why  is  it  ?" 

"  Partly,  perhaps,  from  superstition,  but  more 
from  an  idea  that  the  dead  are  helpless  to  defend 
themselves,"  answered  my  father.  "If  a  man 
have  any  manhood  in  him  his  heart  will  be  touched 
by  the  plea  of  helplessness.  It  is  only  when  men  are 
turned  into  demons  by  war  or  cruelty  or  lust  tfiat 
they  will  disregard  the  plea  of  helplessness."  X^N. 

That  very  night  at  midnight  the  corpse  of  our 
good  old  friend  was  conveyed  down  to  the  vault, 
beneath  the  ruined  chapel,  and  built  into  one  of  the 
niches  of  the  wall  with  some  of  the  rough  stones 
which  lay  loose  about  the  floor.  I  had  never  been 
in  the  vault  before,  and  my  father  cautioned  me  to 
beware  how  I  stepped.  The  floor  was  of  the 
natural  rock,  rough  and  uneven,  and  in  some 
places  were  deep  cracks  from  which  issued  a 
solemn  roaring  sound,  now  loud,  now  faint  and 
almost  dying  away.  By  one  of  the  niches  I  have 
mentioned  which  surrounded  the  vault,  and  which 
were  like  small  chambers  hewn  in  the  rock,  was 
placed  a  little  pile  of  building  materials.  In  this 
chamber  was  placed  the  body  of  our  good  old  friend. 
My  father  read  from  my  mother's  prayer-book  the 
funeral  service  of  the  Church  of  England,  so 
solemn,  touching,  and  comforting.  Then  the  vault 
was  built  up  with  stones  taken  from  the  floor,  and 
carefully  daubed  with  mould  and  slime,  to  look 
as  much  like  the  rest  of  the  wall  as  possible.  It 


144  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

was  a  dreary  funeral  enough,  but  not  so  sad  as  was 
many  another  in  these  sad  days,  when  many  a  duti- 
ful child  had  to  look  on  and  see  the  body  of  father 
or  mother  dragged  away  on  a  hurdle  and  cast  intc 
a  bog  or  buried  in  a  dunghill. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

FLIGHT. 

HE  next  day  my  father  took  Andrew  and 
myself  once  more  into  the  vault— this 
time  by  the  secret  passage  which  led 
from  the  pastor's  room  in  the  tower. 
We  had  a  lantern  with  us,  which  we  lighted  as  soon 
as  we  had  shut  ourselves  in,  for  the  lower  passage 
and  the  staircase  were  quite  dark. 

"  I  made  a  discovery  in  this  place  some  years 
since,  which  I  think  may  be  of  great  service  to  us, 
if  worse  comes  to  worst."  said  my  father.  "  There 
used  to  be  a  legend  to  the  effect  that  a  great  cavern 
existed  under  this  vault  which  had  an  outlet  to  the 
sea-shore,  and  to  which  there  was  formerly  an  en- 
trance from  this  place.  It  was  said  that  this  en- 
trance had  been  built  up  on  accoimt  of  some  dread- 
ful crime  committed  in  the  cavern.  However  that 
may  be,  in  trying,  when  a  young  man,  to  satisfy  my 
curiosity  upon  the  subject,  1  found  an  underground 
passage  leading  from  hence  to  the  little  ruined 
tower  in  the  orchard,  which  you  were  teaching 
Vevette  to  sketch  the  other  day." 


146  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"  flow  curious  !"  said  Andrew.  "  What  could 
it  have  been  used  for  ?" 

"  Probably  for  a  sally-port  in  the  days  when  the 
house  was  fortified.  Such  underground  ways  are 
not  uncommon  in  old  buildings.  It  may  serve  us  a 
good  turn  upon  a  pinch  ;  but  you  must  help  me  to 
open  it,  and  you,  Vevette,  must  hold  the  light.  I 
built  it  up  myself  with  the  hewn  stones  which  seem 
to  have  been  left  here  from  ancient  times,  perhaps 
from  the  time  that  the  entrance  was  closed  to  the 
cavern  below.  No  one  knows  the  secret  but  old 
Sablot,  who  died  the  other  day,  and  who  assisted  me 
in  the  work.  So  as  there  is  no  one  else  about  the 
place  whom  I  dare  trust,  I  must  even  ask  you,  my 
fair  son,  to  turn  laborer  for  once,  and  help  me 
with  these  same  stones." 

"  I  want  no  better  fun,"  said  Andrew,  pulling 
off  his  coat  at  once.  ' '  I  have  been  suffering  for 
some  hard  work  ever  since  I  came  here." 

' '  Is  that  the  reason  you  go  out  so  often  with 
Pierre  Le  Febre  in  his  new  boat  ?"  I  asked.  For 
my  father,  seeing  that  Pierre  was  really  making  a 
great  struggle  to  do  well,  had  given  him  a  fine  nev: 
fishing-boat,  to  be  paid  for  in  very  small  instal- 
ments, as  he  could  afford,  and  the  poor  fellow  and 
his  wife  were  very  grateful. 

"  Partly  for  that  reason,  and  partly  because  I  am 
interested  in  the  man  himself,"  answered  Andrew. 
' '  fle  is  one  who,  under  good  teaching,  would  have 
made  a  brave  seaman.  If  I  read  him  aright,  he  is 
one  of  those  people  who  need  grand  motives — more 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          147 

than  the  mere  living  and  working  from  day  to  day, 
and  I  have  been  trying  in  my  stupid  way  to  set  be- 
fore him  something  of  the  sort.  He  was  as  much 
astonished  when  I  told  him  that  God  was  his  Father, 
and  was  pleased  when  he  did  well  and  grieved  when 
he  did  ill,  as  if  he  had  been  brought  up  among  the 
heathen  1  have  seen  in  the  Indian  seas.  But  I  beg 
your  pardon,  sir  ;  I  did  not  mean  to  preach."  And 
Andrew  caught  himself  up  and  blushed  like  a  girl, 
for,  like  other  young  men,  he  was  dreadfully  ashamed 
of  having  any  one  think  he  was  trying  to  be  good. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  beg  my  pardon, 
dear  son,"  said  my  father,  with  a  smile — that  sweet, 
sudden  smile  which  dees  so  light  up  a  usually  grave 
face,  and  which  I  see  again  sometimes  on  my  sober 
little  Armand.  ' '  Surely  it  is  a  blessed  work,  and 
one  which  God  will  own.  But  I  must  warn  you 
that  it  is  not  without  danger.  You  may  be  accused 
of  proselyting,  which  is  one  of  our  deadliest  sins  in 
the  eyes  of  our  enemies." 

"  Well,"  said  Andrew,  with  a  great  sigh,  "  I 
think  I  shall  appreciate  it  if  I  reach  a  land  where  a 
man  may  open  his  mouth.  Why  should  you  delay 
any  longer  ?  Why  not  fly  to-night  ?" 

' '  Because  my  arrangements  are  not  yet  com- 
plete," said  my  father. 

"  If  you  wait  till  everything  is  ready  you  will 
never  go  at  all,"  said  Andrew. 

' '  That  is  true  ;  but  there  are  certain  things  yet 
to  be  arranged  concerning  those  who  stay  behind. 
1  must  see  our  friends  at  Avranches,  and  leave  with 


148  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

them  some  means  of  raising  funds  to  help  them- 
selves withal.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  thither,  and 
the  day  after  I  hope  to  go — but  why  should  I  say 
hope  ?"  he  murmured,  in  the  sad  voice  I  knew  so 
well.  "  Weep  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan 
him,  but  weep,  son,  for  him  that  goeth  away,  for 
he  shall  return  no  more,  nor  see  his  native  country." 

"  If  my  native  country  was  such  a  step-dame  as 
this,  I  don't  think  I  should  bemoan  it  very  much," 
muttered  Andrew  between  his  teeth. 

"  Don't  the  people  who  have  gone  away  and 
settled  in  America  long  to  see  England  again  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  they  do,"  he  said.  "  They 
are  as  self-satisfied  as  any  people  I  ever  saw.  And 
yet  I  don't  know,"  he  added.  "  The  names  they 
give  their  children  are  very  touching,  especially 
those  on  the  stones  in  their  burying-ground." 

"  What  names  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Such  names  as  *  Hopestill,'  '  Waitstill,'  *  Sub- 
mit,' '  Resignation,'  and  the  like.  I  read  one  epi- 
taph over  a  little  baby  girl  which  runs  thus  : 

'  "  Submit  submitted  to  her  Heavenly  King, 
Being  a  flour  of  tbat  Eternal  Spring  ! 
Near  three  years  old,  she  died,  in  Heaven  to  wait ; 
The  year  was  sixteen  hundred  forty-eight.' 

Not  the  best  of  poetry,  you  will  say,  but  very 
affecting  to  my  mind." 

"Come,  come,  son,"  said  my  father;  "we  did 
not  come  into  this  mouldy  old  hole  to  repeat  verses. 
Let  us  set  to  work." 


The  Chevaliers  Daiig liter.          149 

Andrew  blushed  again,  and  at  once  bent  himself 
to  the  task  of  removing  the  heavy  stones.  This 
was  hard  work,  especially  as  it  was  necessary  to 
make  as  little  noise  about  it  as  possible  ;  but  it  was 
accomplished  at  last,  and  the  arched  entrance  of  the 
passage  made  practicable.  More  my  father  did  not 
care  to  do. 

"Now  for  the  other  end,"  said  my  father. 
"  Vevette,  are  you  afraid  ?" 

"  No  indeed  !"  said  I  indignantly. 
"  Yevette  is. a  real  Corbet  woman  !"  said    An- 
drew.    "  She  is  afraid  of  nothing." 

"Except  of  being  laughed  at,"  returned  my 
father.  "  Come,  then,  give  me  the  light.  I  will 
go  first,  and  do  you  young  ones  follow,  carefully, 
and  looking  to  your  steps." 

I  was  about  to  speak,  but  my  father  put  his  finger 
upon  his  lip. 

"  We  will  not  talk,"  whispered  he  ;  "  we  are  now 
outside  the  bounds  of  the  vault,  and  may  be  over- 
heard." 

Accordingly  we  proceeded  in  silence  for  some 
hundred  yards,  sometimes  able  to  walk  upright, 
sometimes  bending  almost  double,  as  the  walls  and 
roof  contracted,  till  our  further  passage  was  barred 
by  a  heap  of  large  stones.  These,  however,  being 
loosely  piled,  were  easily  removed,  and  we  found 
ourselves  in  a  cellar-like  vault,  in  which  were  piled 
up  old  cider-casks.  (All  such  places  in  that  part  of 
Normandy  always  are  full  of  useless  old  casks, 
though  what  they  are  kept  for  I  cannot  say.) 


150  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

From  tills  vault  a  ruined  but  passable  staircase  led 
up  to  the  level  of  tlie  ground.  I  sliall  never  forget 
how  beautiful  everything  looked  to  me  as  we 
emerged  from  the  deeps  of  the  earth  and  saw  the 
whole  landscape  bathed  in  the  mild  autumnal  sun- 
shine. My  heart  bounded  for  a  moment  and  then 
sank  as  in  a  deep  of  cold,  bitter  waves,  when  I 
thought  how  soon  I  must  leave  all  this  beauty,  never, 
never  to  see  it  again.  English  people  sometimes 
fancy  that  French  people  do  not  care  for  their 
homes  because  they  have  no  one  word  which 
answers  to  the  English  one.  It  is  just  one  of  those 
pieces  of  insular  pride  and — I  was  going  to  say 
stupidity — which  always  enrage  me,  though  I  am 
half  an  English  woman  by  birth  and  wholly  one  by 
adoption. 

"  All,  fair  France  !"  said  my  father  mournfully  ; 
"  thou  that  killest  the  prophets  and  stonest  them 
that  are  sent  unto  thee.  Surely  the  day  will  come 
when  thou  shalt  desire  to  see  one  of  the  days  of  the 
Son  of  Man,  and  shall  not  see  it.  Thou  hast  con- 
demned and  killed  the  just,  and  he  doth  not  resist 
thee  !" 

"  And  that  is  where  the  just  is  not  of  my  mind," 
muttered  Andrew  between  his  teeth.  "  If  he  were 
he  would  have  one  fight  for  it." 

My  father  did  not  hear,  but  I  did,  and  gave  An- 
drew a  look,  partly  of  approbation,  partly  of  warn- 
ing. I  felt  as  he  did.  If  we  could  only  have 
fought  for  our  lives  I  should  not  have  minded  it  so 
much. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  151 

"We  returned  by  the  fields,  after  my  father  and 
Andrew  had  shut  up  the  entrance  to  the  passage 
with  the  loose  stones  in  such  a  manner  that  they 
could  easily  be  removed.  As  to  the  other  end, 
we  were  not  afraid  to  leave  it  open,  since  not  one^ 
of  our  farm  or  house  servants  would  have  descend- 
ed into  the  vault  for  any  consideration.  We  found 
my  mother  anxiously  expecting  us. 

"  You  are  gone  a  long  time,"  said  she.  "  Here 
is  a  strange  visitor — no  less  than  a  Capuchin  friar — 
who  says  he  used  to  know  you,  and  desires  much  to 
see  you." 

"  A  friar  !"  said  my  father,  turning  pale. 
"  What  can  he  want  ?  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  Eating  and  drinking  iii  the  dining-room  at  this 
moment,  if  he  is  not  asleep  in  his  chair,"  answered 
my  mother.  "  I  could  do  no  less  than  offer  him 
hospitality,  especially  as  he  asked  no  impertinent 
questions,  and  had  nothing  to  say  about  religious 
matters.  He  seems  a  harmless  old  soul  enough." 

' '  Many  of  them  arer  I  believe,  while  others  are 
wolves  in  sheep's  clothing,"  said  my  father  ;  "  but  I 
shall  soon  see  to  which  class  our  friend  belongs." 

My  father  went  to  the  dining-room,  where  he 
shut  himself  in  with  his  guest  and  remained  a  long 
time,  apparently  in  earnest  conversation.  Finally, 
however,  we  saw  him  accompany  the  friar  to  the 
gate  and  take  a  friendly  leave  of  him. 

"  Well,  what  had  your  ghostly  father  to  say  ?" 
asked  my  mother  when  my  father  returned  to  us. 

"  Nothing  more  than  1  knew  already,"  replied 


152  T/ie  Chevaliers  Daughter* 

my  father.  "  Did  you  not  know  liim  ?  It  was 
my  old  playmate  and  companion  in  arms,  Louis  de 
Reviere." 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  famihar  in  his 
,  face  and  voice, ' '   said   my  mother.      ' '  But   what 
brought  him  here,  and  in  that  dress  ?" 

"  He  has  taken  the  tonsure,  and  is  now  a  Fran- 
ciscan,"  answered  my  father.  "He  had  always 
rather  a  turn  for  a  religious  life,  as  they  call  it.  As 
to  his  errand,  he  came  ostensibly  to  convert  me — 
really  to  warn  us  of  danger,  and  beg  us  to  fly.  He 
says  that  a  company  of  dragoons  will  be  at 
Avranches  next  week.  Ah,  my  poor  people  !" 

"  Do  not  give  way,  my  Armand,"  said  my 
mother  tenderly.  "  But  now,  tell  us  clearly,  what 
is  your  plan  ?" 

"  To  set  forth  by  night  and  travel  to  Honfleur 
by  the  most  retired  roads,  disguised  in  the  peasant 
dresses  I  bade  you  prepare.  You  and  Yevette  will 
ride  the  donkeys.  Andrew  and  myself  will  walk 
beside  you.  We  will  also  have  another  beast  laden 
with  poor  Grace's  dried  fruits  and  confections  which 
we  are  carrying  to  Honfleur  to  sell.  Once  there 
we  shall  find  English  s"hips,  and,  I  trust,  have  no 
difficulty  in  making  our  way.  Simon  Sablot  is  in 
the  secret,  and  will  have  the  animals  all  ready." 

"  And  when  shall  we  set  out  ?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"  To-morrow  night,  my  little  one.  I  must  go 
once  more  to  Avranches  to  bestow  in  safety  the 
money  belonging  to  our  consistory,  which  thou 
knowest  is  in  my  hands." 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          153 

u  Could  not  Simon  take  the  money  to 
Avranches  ?"  asked  my  mother. 

"  And  thus  run  the  risk  while  I  was  escaping  ? 
Nay,  my  Margaret,  that  is  not  spoken  like  thyself. 
But,  in  truth,  my  risk  would  be  much  less  than  his. 
Thou  knowest  I  have  made  many  errands  thither 
of  late,  concerning  the  houses  which  are  being  re- 
paired in  the  market-place.  No  one  will  think  it 
at  all  strange. ' ' 

My  mother  shook  her  head,  but  both  she  and  I 
knew  that,  once  my  father's  mind  was  made  up  on 
a  point  of  duty,  there  was  no  more  to  be  said. 

The  day  passed  quietly  and  sadly  enough,  for 
we  all  felt  it  was  probably  the  last  day  we  should 
spend  in  the  dear  old  house.  Our  preparations 
were  all  completed,  even  to  filling  the  panniers  of  the 
spare  donkey  with  the  dried  fruits  and  other  mat- 
ters which  were  to  form  our  ostensible  errand  to 
Honfleur.  As  my  father  said,  he  had  laid  by  a 
considerable  amount  of  wealth  in  diamonds  and 
other  jewels,  which,  being  of  small  bulk,  could  be 
easily  concealed  about  our  persons.  We  had  also 
about  three  hundred  louis  in  gold,  which  was  di- 
vided between  us.  We  dared  take  but  very  few 
clothes,  and  as  for  books  or  any  treasures  of  that 
sort,  they  were  of  course  quite  out  of  the  question. 

I  think  none  of  us  slept  that  night.  I  am  sure  I 
did  not.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  1  could  not  endure 
to  lose  sight  for  a  moment  of  the  things  and  places 
I  was  so  soon  to  leave  forever.  At  daylight  my 
father  called  us  all  together,  and  for  the  last  time 


154  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

we  joined  in  prayer  about  that  family  altar  which 
was  so  soon  to  be  laid  in  ruins,  never  to  be  builded 
in  that  place  again.  But  why  should  I  say  so  ? 
Never  is  a  long  day.  Perhaps  some  time,  in  the 
councils  of  heaven,  that  altar  may  be  once  more 
erected. 

We  took  our  breakfast  together  very  silently,  and 
then  my  father  kissed  us  all  and  mounted  his  horse 
to  go  to  Avranches,  taking  Andrew  with  him.  My 
mother  called  all  the  servants  and  paid  them  their 
wages,  with  a  little  present  into  the  bargain.  1  be- 
lieve the  good  s'ouls  had  an  idea  of  what  was  going 
to  happen,  though  none  of  them  said  a  word.  It 
was  a  weary  day,  for  wre  had  done  everything  we 
could  think  of  by  way  of  precaution,  and  the  time 
hung  heavy  on  our  hands.  My  father  was  to  have 
returned  by  three  o'clock,  but  the  hour  struck  and 
he  did  not  come.  Alas,  never  again  ! 

I  had  gone  down  to  the  gate  for  the  tenth  time 
to  look  for  them,  when,  as  I  opened  the  little  wicket, 
I  met  Pierre  Le  Febre  face  to  face. 

"  Thank  the  holy  archangel,"  said  lie  breath- 
lessly. "  I  was  wondering  how  I  should  get  speech 
of  you,  mademoiselle.  But  let  me  come  in,  for  I 
have  somewhat  to  say." 

1  let  him  into  the  courtyard,  and  called  my  moth- 
er to  hear  Pierre's  tale. 

"  I  was  standing  by  the  great  gate  of  the  hospital, 
as  they  call  it,"  said  he.  "I  had  sold  my  fish  to 
the  Sisters,  and  was  waiting  for  my  money  when  the 
wicket  suddenly  opened  and  Lucille  Sablot  looked 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.  155 

out.  Ah,  madame,  how  changed  !  But,  as  I  said, 
she  looked  out,  and,  seeing  no  one,  she  put  this 
little  packet  into  my  hand. 

"  '  Quick,  Pierre,  if  ever  you  cared  for  me,'  said 
she.  '  This  for  Marnselle  Vevette,  and  make  haste. 
Life  and  death  are  in  thy  steps.  Tell  Yevette  I 
dared  not  write,  but  she  will  know  what  this  means 
by  the  English  name.'  Then  she  drew  in  her  head, 
and  I  heard  some  one  scolding  her  within  for  look- 
ing out  of  bounds." 

Breathlessly  I  opened  the  paper.  There  was 
nothing  in  it  but  a  grosse  mouche,  what  in  English 
we  call  a  bluebottle. 

"-A  fly,"  said  I.  "  Fly  !  That  is  what  it 
means,  maman.  Lucille  has  sent  us  a  warning. 
She  knows  of  some  danger  that  threatens  us  imme- 
diately. What  shall  we  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  your  father  were  but  here  !"  said  my 
mother,  wringing  her  hands  convulsively. 

"Here  he  comes,"  said  I,  and  at  that  moment 
appeared,  not  my  father,  but  Andrew,  riding  across 
the  fields  at  break-neck  speed,  his  horse  covered  with 
foam.  He  sprang  to  the  ground,  flinging  his  reins 
loose  anyhow. 

"  Armand  !  my  husband!"  said  my  mother. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"  To  the  tower  tirst,  aunt,  then  I  will  tell  you 
all.  Pierre,  if  ever  he  or  I  did  you  a  good  turn, 
do  me  one  now!"  said  Andrew  sharply.  "  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  risk  yourself,  but  let  me  have 
your  boat.  The  wind  is  fair.  We  must  run  for 


156  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

Jersey  as  soon  as  it  is  a  little  later.  Go,  and  get  it 
ready." 

"My  boat  does  not  go  without  me,  monsieur,'' 
said  Pierre.  "  I  can  bring  it  back,  and  if  I  am  out 
two  or  three  days  I  am  kept  by  the  wind.  You 
can  never  manage  it  alone ;  you  do  not  know  the 
channels,  and  I  do." 

' '  As  you  will  ;  but  have  it  ready  by  ten  this 
night.  It  will  be  very  dark,  but  so  much  the  bet- 
ter. Run,  now.  Come,  aunt,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
for  your  child's  sake. "  For  maman  stood  like  a 
marble  statue. 

"  I  will  not  move  till  you  tell  me  news  of  Ar- 
mand,"  said  she. 

"He  is  with  God,"  answered  Andrew,  with  a 
convulsed  face.  "  His  last  words  were,  f  Tell  Mar- 
garet to  escape,  for  my  sake,  and  the  child's.  We 
shall  meet  again. '  ' 

' '  True,  we  shall  meet  again.  It  is  but  a  short 
parting,"  said  my  mother  musingly.  Then,  as  An- 
drew stamped  his  foot  with  impatience,  she  seemed 
to  rouse  herself.  "  I  am  ready,  my  dear  son. 
What  shall  we  do  ?" 

"Go,  you  and  Vevette,  and  put  on  your  peasant 
dresses,  and  secure  the  money  and  jewels,  while  1 
warn  the  servants.  1  want  them  to  find  an  empty 
nest.  Stay  in  your  room  till  I  come." 

We  obeyed  at  once.  My  mother  was  pale  as 
ashes,  but  calm,  and  even  cheerful.  As  to  myself, 
I  believe  I  retained  only  one  rational  thought  at 
that  moment — to  do  as  1  was  bid.  We  changed  our 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          157 

dresses  and  made  our  other  arrangements  with  tho 
speed  of  thought,  hut  we  had  hardly  finished  before 
the  noise  of  voices  and  clapping  of  doors  told  that 
the  alarm  had  been  given.  In  another  moment 
Andrew  appeared. 

"  I  have  told  them  that  the  mob  are  coming,  and 
that  their  ladies  have  already  escaped.  I  have  bid 
them  take  to  the  woods  for  the  night.  Come, 
now  !  Leave  everything  in  all  the  confusion  possi- 
ble to  look  like  a  hasty  flight.  It  will  all  the  better 
throw  them  off  the  scent." 

We  entered  the  secret  passage,  and  closing  it 
securely  after  us  we  sought  the  upper  floor  of  the 
tower — not,  however,  the  uppermost  one,  but  the 
second. 

"Do  you  know  the  way,  Andrew?"  I  asked. 
"  My  father  said  these  floors  were  not  safe." 

"  They  are  safe  enough  for  us,  but  our  enemies 
will  not  find  them  very  safe,"  was  Andrew's 
response.  ' '  Step  lightly,  and  follow  me  exactly. ' ' 

We  went  around  the  side  of  the  room  to  a  cup- 
board with  shelves,  masking  a  door  BO  entirely  that 
no  one  would  have  known  it  was  there.  This  door 
opened  into  a  second  and  much  smaller  room,  which 
again  opened  upon  the  staircase  up  which  I  had  led 
the  preacher. 

"We  can  take  breath  now,"  said  he.  "We 
need  not  seek  the  vaults  till  we  hear  them  approach- 
ing, and  not  then  unless  they  come  into  this  tower. " 

"They  will  come,"  said  I.  "  Remember  the 
staircase  from  the  gallery." 


I  58  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  Let  them,"  was  Andrew's  grim  reply. 
"  There  are  a  few  secrets  about  this  place  which 
even  you  do  not  know,  Yevette. "  As  he  spoke  he 
stooped  down,  drew  out  two  large  iron  bolts  and 
laid  them  on  the  floor.  "  The  trap  is  set  and 
baited,"  said  he;  "  now  let  the  rats  walk  in 
whenever  they  please." 

"  But  how — how  was  it,"  I  asked  in  a  whisper, 
for  my  mother  never  said  a  word.  The  fact  that 
my  father  was  dead  seemed  enough  for  her. 

' '  We  had  hardly  reached  Avranches  when  we 
heard  the  uproar  in  the  market-place,"  returned 
Andrew.  "  At  first  we  did  not  think  of  the  cause, 
but  as  soon  as  we  caught  sight  of  the  place  we  saw 
what  was  going  on.  They  were  pulling  down  the 
houses  of  the  Protestants,  and  dragging  out  the 
women  and  the  little  children."  Andrew  shud- 
dered and  covered  his  face.  "  I  saw  one  man  in  a 
friar's  gown  take  two  little  baby  girls  in  his  arms 
and  try  to  carry  them  out  of  the  press,  but  they  were 
torn  from  him.  Then  they  caught  sight  of  us,  and 
one  cried  out,  '  There  is  the  arch  heretic.  There  is 
the  man  who  shelters  the  preachers. '  And  a  volley 
of  stones  flew  about  our  ears.  We  turned  to  fly,  as 
there  was  clearly  nothing  else  to  be  done,  but  a  man 
named  Michaud — I  don't  know  whether  you  know 
him—" 

"  My  father  saved  him  from  the  galleys,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  he  raised  his  arquebuse  and  deliberately 
fired  at  my  uncle,  wounding  him  in  the  breast.  He 
did  not  fall  nor  lose  his  presence  of  mind,  and  by 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          159 

lanes  and  by-ways  we  gained  the  wood.  Then  he 
sank  to  the  ground,  and  I  saw  that  lie  was  dying. 
'  Lose  no  time  with  me, '  said  he  faintly.  '  Hasten 
home  at  once.  Did  we  not  hear  them  cry.  ' '  To  the 
tower  !"  Remember  the  secret  passage.  Hide  as 
long  as  you  can,  if  you  cannot  get  away.  Go  not 
by  the  road,  but  across  the  heath.  Why  do  you 
stay  ? '  But  I  did  not  leave  him  till  he  had  breathed 
his  last.  Then  I  drew  his  body  aside  into  the 
bushes,  and  hastened  hither. ' ' 

"  And  do  you  think  they  will  come  ?"  I  asked, 
as  soon  as  I  could  speak. 

"  I  most  surely  do,"  he  answered.  "  The  hope 
of  plunder  would  bring  the  rascals,  of  whom  there 
are  abundance.  The  priest  sets  on  the  zealots  and 
others  join  because  they  are  afraid  of  being  suspect- 
ed of  favoring  the  cause. ' ' 

"We  sat  in  silence  for  what  seemed  a  very  long 
time,  till  the  great  clock  struck  eight.  At  that  very 
moment  we  heard  a  shout  and  the  trampling  of 
many  feet,  while  a  strong  glare  shone  through  the 
little  grated  casement  of  the  room. 

"  There  they  are,"  said  Andrew,  stepping  to  the 
window.  I  followed  him  and  looked  out.  On  they 
came,  a  mob  "of  ruffians  and  abandoned  women, 
with  many,  too,  of  whom  I  should  have  hoped  better 
things.  Heading  the  press  was  one  of  the  cures  of 
Avranches,  a  man  whose  openly  dissolute  life  was  a 
scandal  to  his  own  people.  There  were  also  two  or 
three  friars,  among  them  the  one  who  had  visited 
us  the  day  before. 


160  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"Ah,  the  traitor!"  said  I.  "My  father's  old 
companion  in  arms,  and  but  yesterday  eating  his 
bread." 

"I  believe  you  do  him  injustice,"  said  my 
mother,  in  as  calm  a  tone  as  if  she  were  speaking  of 
the  most  ordinary  matter.  "  He  has  come  in  the 
hope  of  rendering  us  some  service.  Poor,  miserable, 
deluded  people  !" 

"  I  would  I  had  some  charges  of  grapeshot  for 
these  poor  people,"  said  Andrew.  "  They  would 
go  farther  to  dispel  their  illusions  than  a  deal  of 
reasoning.  Anything  but  hiding  like  rats  in  a 
hole.  But  we  have  no  choice.  Not  a  word  or 
sound,  for  your  lives.  But  what  is  here  ?" 

It  was  something  which  in  my  excited  state 
almost  sent  me  off  into  a  hysterical  laugh — namely, 
my  great,  long-haired,  white  cat  Blanchon,  which 
had  followed  us  into  the  tower,  and  now  mounted 
upon  the  window-seat  was  growling  savagely  at  the 
intruders.  He  was  an  odd  creature,  very  fond  of 
his  friends,  but  formidable  to  his  enemies,  and  he 
had  this  peculiarity,  that  he  never  mewed.  A 
strange  yell,  which  sounded  like  that  of  a  human 
being  in  the  wildest  rage,  when  he  flew  upon  his 
enemies,  and  a  loud  purr  were  all  the  noises  he  ever 
made. 

"  Let  him  be.  He  will  do  no  harm,"  said  I. 
"  He  never  makes  any  noise.  What  shall  we  do 
now  ?"  as  the  mob  made  their  onslaught  on  the 
gates  with  a  savage  yell  which  made  me  shudder. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  161 

"  Keep  quiet,"  was  the  reply.  "  "We  are  safe 
enough  unless  they  set  fire  to  the  tower. ' ' 

In  another  moment  the  gate  yielded,  and  the  peo- 
ple poured  in.  Before  one  could  speak  they  were 
all  over  the  house,  calling  to  each  other  and  venting 
their  rage  at  finding  no  one  by  breaking  and  de- 
stroying all  before  them. 

"  To  the  old  tower,  comrades  !"  finally  cried  a 
voice.  "  There  is  the  hiding-place." 

1  suppose  numbers  gave  the  people  courage,  for 
I  am  certain  not  one  of  them  would  have  dared  in- 
vade the  domain  of  the  white  chevalier  alone.  We 
heard  the  rush  up  the  stairs  and  then  the  battering 
down  of  the  door.  Then  there  was  a  short  pause. 

'•'  Come  on,"  cried  the  same  voice,  which  I  now 
recognized  as  that  of  Michaud,  our  old  gamekeeper, 
whom  my  father  had  saved  only  to  be  murdered 
by  him.  "  Come  on.  Who  cares  for  ghost  or 
devil  ?" 

There  was  a  rush  into  the  room,  then  a  cry  from 
those  nearest  the  door.  "  Take  care  !  The  floor  !" 
But  it  was  too  late.  The  loosened  boards  gave  way, 
and  down  went  a  dozen  men,  Michaud  among  them, 
through  a  yawning  gulf  clear  to  the  ground  floor. 

"  Back  !  back  !  The  tower  is  falling  !"  was  the 
cry,  while  the  shrieks  of  the  men  below  added  to 
the  confusion.  The  tower  was  at  once  deserted, 
and  we  presently  heard  sounds  which  told  us  that 
the  fallen  men  were  being  rescued  from  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  floor. 

"  To  the  cellars  !"  cried  now  the  voice  of  Pierre 


1 62  The  Chevaliers  Daiighter. 

Le  Febre.  "  Let  us  taste  the  old  chevalier's  wine 
and  brandy." 

"  Good,  Pierre  !"  said  Andrew.  "  Once  let  them 
get  among  the  casks  and  bottles,  and  we  are  safe." 

"  If  Pierre  does  not  get  among  them  himself," 
said  I. 

"  I  do  not  believe  he  will,  and  in  any  case  we 
have  the  boat.  But  it  is  time  we  were  stirring. 
Aunt,  can  you  walk  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  can  do  anything  you  wish," 
answered  my  mother,  in  the  same  calm  way.  She 
seemed  to  have  all  her  wits  about  her,  but  she  did 
not  speak  unless  we  spoke  to  her. 

"  Come,  then,"  and  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
secret  passage  into  which  pussy  led  the  way, 
majestically  waving  his  tail  and  looking  back  as  if 
to  say,  "  Come  on,  and  fear  nothing  !  You  are 
under  my  protection."  I  remember  smiling,  in  all 
my  grief  and  anxiety,  at  his  air  of  patronage.  I 
went  first,  after  I  had  lighted  the  lantern,  then 
came  my  mother,  and  lastly  Andrew.  We  heard 
only  distant  and  muffled  sounds,  and  judged  that 
the  people  were  busied  in  the  cellar,  where  was 
stored  not  only  wine  and  liquor,  but  abundance  of 
old  cider,  strong  as  brandy  itself. 

We  had  just  reached  the  level  of  the  chapel  and 
were  about  passing  the  door  which  led  into  it,  when 
Blanchon  the  cat  stopped,  growling  fiercely.  In 
another  moment  a  light  shone  through  the  opened 
door.  The  next  Blanchon  sprang  forward  with  hin 
v.  ild,  unearthly  yell  of  onset,  and  flung  himself  into 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          163 

the  face  of  a  man  who  had  just  put  liis  JLead 
through  the  opening.  There  was  a  scream  of  quite 
another  character,  and  the  man  fled  stumbling  and 
falling  on  his  way  out,  while  Blanchon  came  back 
to  us  with  the  loud  purr,  which  was  his  way  of  ex- 
pressing complacency. 

"  Good  cat,"  said  Andrew.  "  That  man  won't 
find  his  way  back  in  a  hurry,  but  some  one  else  may. 
Hold  up  the  light,  Yevette." 

I  held  up  the  light  while  Andrew  pulled  to  the 
door  and  with  a  stone  smashed  the  spring-lock. 

"  Nobody  will  open  that,  even  if  any  one  dares 
try,"  said  he.  "Now  for  all  the  haste  we  can 
make." 

I  caught  up  Blanchon  and  carried  him,  to  which 
he  made  no  objection.  We  were  soon  in  the  open 
air,  and  walking  quickly  down  the  course  of  the 
stream  which  had  scooped  out  the  valley,  we  found 
ourselves  in  the  little  hamlet.  It  seemed  to  be 
deserted.  Not  a  man  was  to  be  seen,  nor  a  light, 
save  in  Isabeau's  cottage.  The  night  had  grown 
wild  and  stormy,  but  it  was  not  very  dark.  And 
we  could  see  the  mast  of  the  boat,  which  lay  at  the 
end  of  the  little  pier. 

"Now  if  Pierre  has  been  true,"  said  Andrew, 
and  at  that  moment  we  heard  his  voice. 

"  Monsieur  arid  madame,  is  that  you  ?  All  is 
ready  ;  but  we  shall  have  a  wild  night." 

"  Never  mind,  so  long  as  the  wind  is  fair,"  re- 
turned Andrew,  in  the  same  whisper.  "  I  would 


164  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter 

rather  face  the  sea  than  the  devils  we  have  left  be- 
hind." 

We  were  assisted  into  the  boat,  I  holding  fast 
to  iny  cat,  and  set  sail.  I  can  give  little  account  of 
the  voyage.  I  know  it  was  a  rough  and  tempestu- 
ous one,  and  that  we  were  many  times  in  the  great- 
est danger  from  the  rocks  and  counter  currents 
which  make  navigation  in  those  parts  so  difficult. 
Andrew  had  the  helm  most  of  the  time,  while 
Pierre,  whose  smuggling  and  other  lawless  exploits 
had  made  him  well  acquainted  with  the  channel, 
directed  our  course.  My  mother  sat  quite  still 
under  the  half -deck  of  the  boat,  and  I  dozed  by  fits, 
with  Blanchon  in  my  lap,  who  now  and  then  uttered 
a  peevish  growl,  as  he  vainly  tried  to  lick  himself 
dry. 

"  There  comes  the  morning  at  last,"  said  Le 
Febre  joyously  ;  "  and  here  is  the  blessed  St.  Au- 
bin's  bay  spread  out  before  us,  if  we  can  but  get 
into  it.  I  would  we  had  a  better  pilot  than  my- 
self." 

"  Yonder  comes  a  boat  which  has  been  out  all 
night,"  said  Andrew.  And  he  stood  up  and  hailed 
her  in  English, 

"  Boat  ahoy  !" 

"  Hilloa  !"  came  back,  as  the  stranger  rapidly 
overhauled  us.  "  Who  are  you  ?" 

"  English,"  was  the  answer.  "  We  have  ladies 
on  board.  Where  are  you  bound  ?" 

"  To  St.  Aubin's,"  was  the  reply.  "  Follow  us, 
and  you  will  do  well  enough." 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  165 

"  Good  !"  said  Andrew  to  my  mother.  "  We  shall 
land  close  at  home.  And  now  that  we  are  com- 
paratively safe,  tell  me,  Pierre,  did  I  not  hear  your 
voice  at  the  tower  last  night  ?" 

"You  did,  monsieur,"  was  the  reply.  "I  had 
a  mind  to  see  what  was  going  on,  for  I  knew  I 
would  get  back  in  time,  and  without  being  missed. 
It  was  I  who  put  the  rascals  up  to  break  into  the 
cellars.  The  priest  tried  to  draw  them  away  after 
him  to  search  the  old  chapel,  but  he  did  not  know 
his  men  so  well  as  I  did.  Then,  when  I  saw  them 
well  engaged,  I  took  to  my  heels  and  reached  the 
pier  before  you,  not  having  so  far  to  go,  or  knowing 
the  way  better.  But  where  were  you  when  the 
floors  fell  ?  I  trembled  for  you  then." 

"We  were  safe  enough,  and  not  far  off,"  was 
the  reply.  "  Was  any  one  much  hurt  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  Michaud  will  die,  and  a  good  riddance 
too.  There  were  some  broken  heads  and  bones  ;  I 
don't  know  how  many.  But,  monsieur,  what  could 
have  been  in  the  chapel  which  handled  the  priest  so 
terribly.  I  found  him  in  the  court  blinded  in  both 
eyes  and  his  face  torn  to  pieces  as  by  a  wild  beast, 
and  he  said  something  sprang  at  him  in  the  old 
chapel.  Could  it  have  been  that  devil  of  a  white 
chevalier,  think  you  ?  Could  a  ghost  handle  a  man 
like  that  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  -whether  or  no  ghosts  can 
scratch, ' '  answered  Andrew  gravely  ;  ' '  but  the  one 
who  attacked  the  priest  has  been  a  passenger  with 
us."  And  he  raised  my  cloak  and  showed  Blan- 


1 66  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

chon,  who  had  abandoned  the  attempt  to  keep  him- 
self dry,  and  lay  a  wet  and  sulky  heap  in  my  lap. 
Pierre's  face  fell. 

"  A  white  cat,"  said  he.  "  If  I  had  known  we 
had  a  white  cat  on  board  I  should  have  given  up  in 
despair  a  dozen  times.  However,  all  is  well  that 
ends  well,"  he  added,  brightening  up  ;  "  and  here 
we  come  sure  enough. ' ' 

"  And  yonder  is  your  cousin's  house,  Yevette," 
said  Andrew,  pointing  to  a  comfortable-looking 
mansion  not  far  away.  "  We  shall  soon  be  under 
a  roof  once  more." 

The  family  of  the  fisherman  whose  boat  had  pre- 
ceded us  were  gathered  at  the  landing  to  see  us 
come  in,  and  loud  were  their  exclamations  of  won- 
der and  pity  as  my  mother  and  myself  were  assisted 
from  our  cramped  position  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  to  the  landing-place.  By  one  of  the  boys 
Andrew  sent  a  message  up  to  the  house,  and  in 
what  seemed  a  wonderfully  short  time  we  were  sur- 
rounded and  conveyed  to  the  mansion  Andrew  had 
pointed  out,  by  a  troop  of  excited  boys  and  girls, 
under  the  leadership  of  an  elderly  considerate  man- 
servant. Here  we  were  warmly  welcomed,  kissed, 
fed  with  hot  soup  and  mulled  wine,  and  finally  put 
to  bed  in  the  most  fluffy  of  feather-beds,  my  mother 
and  myself  in  adjoining  rooms.  Maman  was  still 
in  the  same  curiously  passive  state,  but  not  uncon- 
scious. 

"  Go  to  rest,  my  Yevette,"  she  said,  kissing  me 
as  I  hung  over  her.  "  Have  no  fears  for  me.  I 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  167 

shall  do  well.  Thank  God  that  you  are  in  safety. 
Ah,  if  thy  father  were  but  here  !"  and  for  the  first 
time  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  That  is  well,  my  love,"  said  my  oldest  cousin, 
to  whom  I  looked  in  anxiety.  "  These  tears  will 
relieve  your  mother,  and  she  will  sleep,  and  all  the 
better  if  she  knows  you  are  at  rest.  Go,  my  child. " 

I  was  used  to  obey,  and  my  kind  motherly  cousin 
inspired  confidence  by  her  very  tone.  I  undressed, 
put  on  the  dry  warm  flannels  provided  for  me,  and 
crept  into  the  bed,  on  which  Blanchon  was  already 
established.  Oh,  the  delicious  depths  of  that 
English  bed  !  1  thought  I  should  lie  awake  to 
listen  to  the  sounds  from  the  next  room,  but  I  was 
worn  out,  and  fell  asleep  before  my  head  was  fairly 
on  the  pillow. 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

IN    JERSEY. 

SLEPT  till  afternoon,  and  when  1  waked 
I  could  not  at  first  tell  where  I  was, 
everything  about  me  was  so  utterly  differ- 
ent from  anything  I  had  been  used  to. 
My  bed  was  surrounded  by  light  curtains  of  blue  and 
white  checked  linen,  and  through  these  at  the  foot  I 
could  see  that  the  hangings  of  the  latticed  window 
were  of  the  same.  The  bed  was  covered  with  a  white 
spread  worked  with  a  curious  pattern  in  colored 
crewels.  Everything  was  very  quiet,  but  I  could  hear 
the  distant  hum  of  a  spinning-wheel,  and  the  singing 
of  a  robin  outside  my  window.  I  lay  quietly  a  long 
time,  half  asleep  and  dreaming,  half  bewildered, 
feeling  as  if  I  had  died  and  wakened  into  a  new 
world,  of  which  all  I  knew  was  that  it  was  safe  and 
friendly.  At  last  I  raised  myself,  put  aside  the  cur- 
tain, and  looked  out.  The  room  was  small,  very  little 
larger  than  the  one  I  had  inhabited — oh,  how  long  ago 
—but  it  was  very  different.  The  window  was  not  a 
mere  slit  almost  lost  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall,  but 
a  peaceful  lattice,  broad  and  low,  into  which,  late  as 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  169 

it  was,  loeked  a  cluster  of  noisette  roses.  The  floor 
was  of  boards  intsead  of  tiles,  and  covered  here  and 
there  with  rugs,  evidently  of  home  construction. 
A  little  table  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  on  which 
were  placed  a  bright  brass  candlestick,  a  Bible  and 
prayer-book,  and  a  little  cup  of  flowers,  and  a  shelf 
on  the  wall  held  a  slender  row  of  volumes.  On  an 
arm -chair  near  the  bed  was  laid  a  change  of  clean 
linen,  and  beside  it  a  mourning  frock.  The  sight  of 
that  black  frock  brought  back  to  my  mind  all  that 
had  passed  in  the  last  twenty-four  hours.  I  had 
been  through  so  much,  and  the  need  of  action  had 
been  so  instant,  that  I  had  had  no  time,  as  it  were, 
to  feel  what  I  had  lost,  but  now  it  came  upon  me 
in  one  moment.  My  father  was  dead — murdered 
by  the  very  man  whom  he  had  saved  from  the 
effects  of  what  he  believed  to  be  a  false  accusation. 
His  body  lay  unburied  at  this  moment,  a  prey  to 
wild  animals  or  more  savage  men.  My  mother  and 
myself  were  exiles  in  a  strange  land,  never  again  to 
see  the  home  where  I  had  grown  up,  and  where  I 
had  lived  so  happily,  in  spite  of  uncertainty  and 
danger. 

"  Oh,  if  my  father  were  but  here  I  would  not 
care  for  anything  else  !"  I  sobbed,  and  covering  my 
head  I  wept  till  I  was  exhausted,  and  once  more  I 
fell  asleep. 

I  was  waked  by  some  one  who  came  very  softly 
into  the  room  bearing  a  shaded  light,  and  I  started 
up  in  alarm. 

"What   has   happened?"    I    asked,     only    half 


I  70  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

awake.       "  Have   I   been   asleep  ?      Has   not  my 
father  come  home  ?" 

"  It  is  1,  my  love — Cousin  Marianne,"  said  the 
new-comer  in  a  soft,  lady- like  voice.  "  Do  not  be 
frightened.  All  is  safe.  Your  mother  is  awake, 
and  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  rise  and 
take  some  refreshment  with  her." 

"Is  it  very  late  ?"  I  asked,  still  bewildered. 
"  Has  neither  my  father  nor  Andrew  come 
back  ?" 

"  Recollect     yourself,     dear    child,"    said    my 
cousin,  setting  down  her  light  and  coming  to  the 
bedside.     "  Do  you  not  remember  what  has  hap 
pened  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  !"  said  I,  and  my  tears 
flowed  again.  My  cousin  sat  down  on  the  bedside, 
laid  my  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  wept  with  me  for 
a  while.  Then  she  began  gently  to  soothe  and  hush 
me,  and  by  degrees  I  grew  composed,  so  that  when 
she  again  proposed  to  me  to  try  to  rise  I  was  quite 
ready  to  comply.  She  assisted  me  to  dress,  but 
looked  a  little  displeased  when  she  saw  the  black 
gown. 

"  That  was  thoughtless  of  Katherine,"  said  she. 
"  We  are  wearing  mourning  ourselves,  but  she 
might  have  got  out  a  colored  frock  for  to-day." 

"  It  does  not  signify,"  said  I.  "I  must  put  on 
black,  of  course.  How  is  my  mother,  madame  ?" 

"  She  seems  well  in  health,  and  very  quiet  and 
composed,"  was  the  answer;  "but  I  have  per- 
suaded her  to  remain  in  her  room,  for  I  am  sure 


7 *he  Chevaliers  Daughter.  171 

she  must  need  rest  after  the  events  of  yesterday  and 
last  night." 

"  Yesterday  !"  I  exclaimed.  "Is  it  possible 
that  it  was  only  yesterday  morning  that  I  saw  my 
father  and  Andrew  set  out  from  our  gate  to  go  to 
Avranches  ?" 

"  So  I  understand  from  Andrew,"  was  the  reply. 
"  I  dare  say  it  seems  an  age  to  you.  My  love,  how 
curly  your  hair  is. ' ' 

"  It  curls  worse  than  nsual  because  it  has  been 
wet,"  said  I,  almost  laughing  at  the  odd  transition. 
"  Maman  says  it  is  real  Corbet  hair." 

"  Yes,  you  are  like  your  mother's  family,  all  but 
the  complexion.  Here  is  a  fresh  cap  for  you. 
They  say  that  in  London  young  ladies  do  not  wear 
caps,  but  I  cannot  think  that  a  modest  custom. 
There,  now,  you  look  like  an  English  maiden,  and 
a  very  sweet  one,"  said  the  dear  old  lady,  kissing 
me,  and  then  holding  me  off  and  regarding  me  with 
great  satisfaction,  much  as  if  I  had  been  a  doll  she 
had  just  dressed.  ' '  Now  I  will  let  you  go  in  to 
your  mother,  as  I  dare  say  she  would  rather  see  you 
alone  just  at  first.  The  next  door  to  this  on  the 
right  hand,  remember.  I  will  go  down  and  send 
up  your  supper  presently,  and  you  must  try  to  make 
dear  mamma  eat  something."  And  Cousin  Mari- 
anne glided  away  with  that  peculiar  swift,  short 
step  of  hers,  which  never  seemed  to  make  any  noise 
even  on  a  tiled  floor.  I  never  saw  any  one  else 
move  in  the  same  way  or  get  over  so  much  ground 
in  the  same  time. 


i  72  T/ie  Clievaliers  Daughter. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  awe  that  I  opened  my 
mother's  door.  She  was  up  and  dressed,  and  lay 
back  in  a  great  chair,  with  her  little  worn  prayer- 
book  in  her  hand.  I  now  remembered  seeing  her 
slip  it  into  her  bosom  when  we  changed  our  dresses 
in  such  a  hurry.  She  held  out  her  arms  to  me,  and 
I  fell  into  them  weeping  ;  but  she  did  not  weep,  and 
I  never  saw  her  shed  a  tear  but  once  afterward. 
Seeing  how  calm  she  was,  I  tried  to  quiet  myself, 
and  succeeded.  Then  she  read  to  me  that  prayer 
in  the  Litany  which  begins,  "  O  God,  Merciful 
Father,"  and  then  for  a  while  we  were  silent. 

"  Do  you  feel  quite  well,  my  Yevette  ?"  she 
asked  at  last. 

"  Yes,  dear  maman,  only  tired,"  I  answered 
truly  ;  for  though  my  head  was  a  little  inclined  to 
be  giddy,  and  I  had  an  odd  feeling  of  bewilder- 
ment, as  though  I  were  some  one  beside  myself,  I 
had  no  pain.  "  Why  do  you  ask  3" 

"  Your  eyes  are  heavy,  and  your  cheeks  more 
flushed  than  usual ;  that  is  all. ' ' 

"  And  you,  maman  ?" 

"  I  am  quite  well,  my  love,  only  weary,  as  you 
say.  Have  you  seen  any  of  the  family  ?" 

"  No,  maman  ;  only  that  kind,  gentle  old  lady. 
She  called  herself  my  Cousin  Marianne.  Who  is 
she?" 

"  She  is  your  cousin,  as  she  said — the  sister  of  Mr. 
George  Corbet,  the  rector  of  this  parish,  and  whose 
household  she  has  governed  since  his  wife  died.  A 
better  woman  never  lived,  nor  one  on  whom  advanc- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  \  73 

ing  years  made  less  impression.  We  have  fallen 
among  kind  friends  in  our  exile,  my  Vevette,  and 
we  must  take  care  to  show  that  we  appreciate  their 
kindness.  You  will  find  your  cousins'  ways  quite 
different  from  anything  you  have  been  used  to  ;  but 
do  not  fall  into  the  common  error  of  thinking  that 
therefore  those  ways  must  be  wrong.  Even  if  they 
should  laugh  at  you,  take  it  in  good  part  and  laugh 
with  them." 

"  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  should  ever  have  the  heart 
to  laugh  again,"  said  I,  sighing. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  one,  you  are  young,  and  youth  is 
elastic.  Your  father  would  not  wish  to  have  all 
your  life  wrapped  in  gloom  because  he  hath  been 
so  early  and  so  easily  removed  to  his  eternal'  rest. 
But  oh,  my  child,  if  you  are  ever  tempted  to  sin 
against  your  own  soul  by  denying  your  religion,  re- 
member it  was  for  that  your  father  laid  down  his 
life." 

"  I  will  never  deny  my  religion  !"  said  I  almost 
indignantly. 

"  I  trust  not ;  but  no  one  knows  how  lie  maybe 
tempted.  There  are  other  inducements  besides  that 
of  escaping  persecution.  The  smiles  of  the  world 
are  far  more  dangerous  to  natures  like  yours  than 
its  frowns,  and  more  than  one  of  our  religion  has 
given  up  to  blandishments  and  to  ambition  what  he 
would  never  have  yielded  to  the  rack.  Your  father 
was  attacked  on  this  side  many  a  time,  with  prom- 
ises of  high  command,  of  court  favor,  and  kingly 
grace,  but  he  never  yielded  an  inch — no,  not,  as  I 


i  74          TJic  Cltevalier's  Daughter. 

believe,  in  liis  inmost  thoughts.  Remember  it,  my 
Vevette,  and  let  his  example  be,  next  to  your  duty 
to  Heaven,  the  guiding  light  of  your  life." 

The  entrance  of  Cousin  Marianne,  followed  by  a 
neat  maid  bearing  a  tray  of  good  things,  interrupt- 
ed our  conversation.  With  that  gentle,  noiseless 
quickness,  which  was  one  of  her  characteristics,  she 
spread  a  little  table  with  a  clean  white  cloth  and 
arranged  thereon  the  tempting  dishes  she  had  caused 
to  be  prepared.  She  also  set  out  two  cups  and 
saucers  of  delicate  china-ware — such  as  David  had 
once  brought  to  my  mother  from  Dieppe.  A  sig- 
nal dismissed  the  maid,  who,  however,  presently 
returned  carrying  a  small  silver  coffee-pot — the  first 
one  I  had  ever  seen  ;  for  though  coffee  had  come 
into  quite  common  use  in  London  and  Paris,  it  had 
not  yet  penetrated  to  Normandy. 

"  I  have  made  you  a  small  pot  of  coffee,  cousin," 
said  she.  "  My  brother  learned  to  like  it  in  Lon- 
don, and  though  I  do  not  approve  of  its  constant 
use,  yet  tempered  with  cream  it  is  refreshing  and 
wholesome  when  one  is  weak  or  tired.  Now  I  shall 
leave  you  to  wait  upon  yourselves,  and  do  try  to 
eat.  It  will  be  hard,  I  dare  say,  but  you  will  be 
the  better  for  it." 

"  Why  does  Cousin  Marianne  make  one  think  of 
poor  Grace  ?"  said  I.  "  She  is  not  in  the  least  like 
her." 

"It  is  the  Cornish  accent,"  said  my  mother. 
"  Grace  always  retained  it,  and  so  does  our  cousin, 
though  she  has  lived  so  long  abroad.  But,  my 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  \  75 

child,  you  do  not  eat  a  mouthful.  Are  you  not 
hungry  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  was,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  somehow 
I  do  not  wish  to  eat  now  the  food  is  before  me. 
But  I  like  the  coffee,"  I  added,  sipping  it  with 
great  satisfaction.  "  Do  you  not  think  it  is  good, 
mainan  ?" 

"  Very  pleasant  indeed.  I  have  tasted  it  before 
when  it  was  a  new  tiling  even  in  London  ;  but  you 
must  not  drink  much  of  it  without  eating,  or  it  will 
keep  you  awake.  Take  one  of  these  saffron -cakes. 
They  are  like  Mrs.  Grace's." 

I  tried  to  eat  to  please  my  mother,  but  with  all 
my  efforts  I  did  not  succeed  very  well.  "Whether 
owing  to  the  coffee  or  because  I  had  slept  so  much 
during  the  day,  I  cannot  say,  but  I  passed  great 
part  of  the  night  lying  broad  awake  and  going  over 
and  over  again,  even  to  the  minutest  circumstance, 
the  events  of  my  life.  They  seemed  to  pass  before 
me  in  endless  succession,  from  the  very  earliest 
things  1  could  remember  in  Jeanne  Sablot's  cot- 
tage, and  that  without  any  volition  of  my  own,  so 
that  it  was  as  if  some  one  unfolded  before  me  a  set 
of  pictures,  and  I  lay  and  looked  at  them.  When 
at  last  I  fell  asleep  it  was  to  be  tormented  by  poor 
Lucille's  messenger,  the  bluebottle  fly,  which  kept 
buzzing  round  my  head,  saying  something  which  I 
could  not  understand,  though  it  was  of  the  last  im- 
portance that  I  should  do  so.  Then  I  was  being 
built  up  by  my  father  and  Andrew  in  one  of  the 
niches  in  the  sepulchral  vault,  while  I  struggled  in 


i  76  J~ke  Ckevaliers  Daughter. 

vain  to  tell  them  tliat  I  was  not  dead.  Oh,  how 
glad  I  was  to  wake  at  last  and  see  the  cheerful  sun 
just  darting  his  first  beams  into  my  casement  !  I 
abandoned  the  attempt  to  sleep,  and  rising  I  dressed 
myself  quickly  and  softly,  for  I  was  possessed  by  an 
overmastering  desire  to  get  into  the  open  air.  I 
slipped  down  the  stairs,  admiring  the  beautiful  neat- 
ness of  the  house,  the  brightness  of  the  glass  and 
the  furniture,  and  the  general  air  of  comfort.  The 
door  of  a  sort  of  little  parlor  was  open,  and  I  peeped 
in.  The  walls  were  hung  with  brown  hollands 
worked  prettily  in  colored  wools  with  leafy  and 
flowery  designs,  and  an  unfinished  piece  of  the  same 
kind  of  embroidery  in  a  great  swinging  frame  stood 
by  a  window.  There  was  an  old-fashioned  East 
Country  cabinet,  such  as  I  had  never  seen  at  that 
time,  a  good  many  books,  or  what  looked  a  good 
many  to  me,  a  lute  and  a  pair  of  virginals — an  in- 
strument I  had  never  beheld  before,  with  a  pile  of 
nmsic-books.  A  sash  door  opened  from  this  room 
to  a  terrace,  and  seeing  that  it  was  only  fastened  by 
an  inside  latch  I  ventured  to  open  it  and  step  out. 
The  house  stood  somewhat  high  upon  the  hill-side, 
overlooking  first  a  sloping  grass-plot  and  flower-gar- 
den, where  late  blossoms  still  lingered,  which  had 
faded  on  the  mainland  long  ago.  Below  was  an  odd 
pretty  little  old  church,  all  surrounded  by  a  green 
graveyard  full  of  mouldering  stones.  Beyond 
were  the  sands  of  the  bay,  over  which  the  tides 
were  coming  up  in  that  peculiar  boiling,  swirling 
fashion  which  belongs  to  tides  about  the  islands,  and 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  177 

still  beyond  were  wooded  abrupt  slopes.  On  the 
top  of  these  I  could  see  a  single  farm-house,  from 
whose  chimney  rose  a  tall,  thin  column  of  blue 
smoke  touched  into  a  rosy  glory  at  the  top  by  the 
rays  of  the  low  sun.  Jsobody  seemed  to  be  stir- 
ring. Two  or  three  fishing-boats  were  anchored  off 
shore,  and  a  few  skiffs  were  drawn  up  on  the  beach. 
A  very  distant  church  bell  was  ringing  and  a  few 
birds  pecking  and  chirping  about  the  hedges  ;  but 
these  sounds,  with  the  rush  of  the  advancing  tide, 
seemed  only  to  render  the  stillness  more  tranquil, 

I  stood  and  gazed  like  one  entranced,  till  I  heard 
steps  approaching,  and  looking  about  I  saw  Andrew 
for  the  first  time  since  we  landed  at  the  little  quay, 
where  Le  Febre's  boat  was  still  lying.  I  could  not 
speak,  but  I  held  out  my  hand.  He  pressed  it 
warmly  and  long,  and  we  stood  in  silence,  looking 
over  the  scene. 

"  You  are  up  early,"  said  I  at  last. 

"  I  saw  you  from  my  window,  and  came  to  join 
you,"  he  answered,  and  then  asked,  in  a  tone  of 
concern,  "  Are  you  quite  well,  Yevette  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  !"  I  answered  pettishly.  "  I 
can't  think  why  every  one  should  ask  me  whether  I 
am  well. ' ' 

"Because  you  do  not  look  so,"  he  answered. 
"  But  that  is  no  wonder,  considering — "  and  then 
he  broke  oil  and  was  silent  again. 

"  How  beautiful  everything  is,  and  how  peace- 
ful 1"  said  I  at  last.  "  Do  you  know  it  seems  so 


i  78  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

strange  to  me  to  think  that  we  are  safe.     1  can 
hardly  believe  it." 

"  It  is  hard  to  believe  it,  even  to  me,  to  whom 
safety   comes    natural,"    he    answered.       "I   car, 
scarcely  think  that  yonder  is  a  Protestant  church, 
where  all  the  village  will  presently  assemble  to  wor- 
ship, and  that  my  cousin  will  preach,  and  say  just 
what  he  pleases  about  the  mass  or  anything  else." 
"  Is  my  cousin  the  minister  ?"  I  asked. 
"  Yes,  the  rector,  as  we  call   him   here.      It   is 
but  a  poor  cure,  but  Mr.  Corbet  has  property  of 
his  own.    Have  you  seen  any  of  your  cousins  yet  ?" 
' '  Only  Cousin  Marianne,  as  she  bade  me  call  her. 
I  think  she  is  charming.     Is  she  a  widow  ?" 
"  No,  she  has  never  married." 
"  Why  was  that  ?"  I  asked,  surprised. 
"  Because  she  did  not  choose,  I  fancy,"  replied 
Andrew,  smiling.        "  In     England,    my     cousin, 
women  do  not  have  to  choose  between  a  husband 
and  the  cloister.    I  have  known  more  than  one  lady 
who  has  never  married,  but  lived  to  be  a  blessing 
to  all  about  her.     Others,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  waste 
their    time    in   miserable   frivolity — in    cards   and 
dancing  and  dress. ' ' 

"  A  woman  who  would  live  h'ke  that  when  single 
would  most  likely  do  the  same  if  she  were  mar- 
ried," said  I  sagely.  "  And  then  her  family  would 
have  to  suffer.  But  I  must  go  back  to  the  house. 
Maman  will  wake  and  miss  me." 

"  And  here  comes  Eleanor  to  cab  us,"  said  An- 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  179 

drew.  "  Dear  good  Eleanor.  She  is  not  as  bright 
as  the  rest,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  like  her." 

Eleanor  came  forward,  and  shook  hands  with  me 
cordially  enough.  She  was  pretty  and  fresh-col- 
ored, but  I  noticed  in  a  moment  that  her  cap  was 
awry,  and  her  fresh  lawn  apron  already  creased  and 
tumbled.  Nevertheless,  I  took  a  fancy  to  her  in  a 
moment. 

"  Do  you  know  whether  my  mother  is  up  ?"  I 
asked,  after  we  had  exchanged  some  commonplace 
remarks. 

"  I  think  she  is.  I  heard  her  moving,"  she  said, 
and  then  asked  abruptly,  "  Don't  yoirwant  to  carry 
her  some  flowers  ?  I  would  have  gathered  them, 
but  I  thought  you  would  like  to  do  it  yourself. 
There  are  plenty  of  late  violets  and  rosebuds  in  the 
garden." 

I  was  pleased  with  the  idea,  and  with  the  odd 
kind  of  consideration  it  showed.  We  collected 
quite  a  nosegay,  which  I  carried  to  my  mother's 
room.  I  had  acted  as  her  maid  and  attendant  of 
late,  though  I  am  sure  I  but  poorly  supplied  the 
loss  of  poor  Grace,  and  I  was  surprised  to  find  hei- 
up  and  dressed. 

"  Oh,  maman,  I  ought  not  to  have  stayed  so  long, " 
said  I  ;  "  but  the  morning  is  so  beautiful,  and  I 
longed  so  to  breathe  the  fresh  air — "  and  then  I 
stopped,  and  had  much  ado  not  to  burst  out  crying 
again  as  I  observed  that  my  mother  had  put  on  a 
black  dress  and  a  long  mourning  veil  after  the  fash- 
ion of  widows  in  England.  I  checked  myself,  how- 


180  Tlie  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

ever,  and  put  into  her  hand  the  flowers  Eleanor  had 
helped  me  to  gather. 

"  Thank  you,  my  love.  They  are  very  charm- 
ing," said  my  mother,  who  loved  flowers  with  a 
kind  of  passion.  "  But  I  fear  you  have  been  mak- 
ing too  free  with  your  cousin's  garden." 

"  Oh,  no,  maman  ;  Eleanor  showed  me  where  to 
gather  them.  It  was  her  thought  in  the  first  place. 
See  what  beautiful  rosebuds,  for  so  late  in  the  year. 
We  have  none  such  in  Normandy.  But  I  suppose 
our  poor  flower-garden  is  all  trampled  into  the 
earth,"  I  added,  and  then  seeing  that  my  mother's 
lips  turned  white,  and  that  she  grasped  the  back  of 
the  chair  for  support,  I  sprang  forward,  exclaiming, 
"  Oh,  dear  maman,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not 
mean  to  hurt  you. ' ' 

"  Th6re  is  no  fault  to  be  pardoned,  my  child," 
said  my  mother,  recovering  herself  as  by  a  great 
effort,  and  kissing  me  ;  "  but,  Yevette,  I  must  be 
selfish  enough  for  the  present  to  ask  you  not  to 
speak  of — '  Her  lips  turned  pale  again,  and  she 
seated  herself  in  the  chair.  I  bathed  her  face  with 
some  sweet  waters  which  stood  on  the  toilette-table, 
and  she  was  soon  herself,  nor  did  she  again  allude  to 
the  subject.  When  sho  was  quite  recovered  we 
said  our  morning  prayers  together,  and  read  the 
Psalms  for  the  day,  as  we  had  been  used  to  do  at 
home.  We  had  but  just  finished  when  Cousin 
Marianne  tapped  at  the  door,  which  I  opened. 

"  So  you  are  both  up  ;  and  I  hear — my  dear,  what 
shall  I  call  you  ?"  said  she,  with  one  of  her  abrupt 


The  Chevaliers  Daiighter.  181 

transitions.  "  That  name  of  Gene  vie  ve  does  not 
suit  an  English  girl,  to  my  thinking." 

u  Call  her  Vevette,"  said  my  mother.  "It  is 
the  name  she  has  always  gone  by.  Or  yon  may  call 
her  by  her  first  name,  Agnes,  if  yon  like. ' ' 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  Agnes  is  an  nnlucky  name — at 
least  for  Cornish  folks.  Vevette  answers  nicely, 
though  it  does  sound  a  little  like  a  cat,"  she  added 
reflectively.  "  However,  it  does  not  matter  ;  and  I 
am  sure  such  a  nice  cat  as  that  of  yours  is  a  credit 
to  any  family.  Why,  no  sooner  did  it  see  me  cut- 
ting some  cold  meat  than  it  sat  up  upon  its  hind 
legs,  and  spread  out  one  paw  exactly  like  a  Chris- 
tian. But,  my  dear  Margaret,  will  you  join  us  at 
breakfast  and  family  prayers  ?  Do  just  as  you 
please." 

"  We  will  come  certainly,"  said  my  mother  ;  and 
leaning  upon  my  arm  she  descended  to  the  parlor 
below — not  the  one  I  had  been  in  before — where  we 
found  the  whole  family  assembled,  including  my 
Cousin  George,  who  came  forward  to  meet  us. 

Of  all  men  that  ever  I  saw,  Cousin  George  came 
the  nearest  to  my  idea  of  a  clergyman,  at  least  in 
appearance  and  manners.  He  was  a  tall,  slender 
man,  with  curling  hair  as  white  as  snow.  His  face 
had  that  hale,  healthful  red,  like  that  of  a  winter 
apple,  which  is  so  beautiful  in  old  age,  and  shone 
with  a  benignancy  and  purity  that  I  cannot  de- 
scribe. It  was  the  light  within  shining  out  which 
did  so  illumine  his  countenance,  for  a  sweeter,  more 
£odly,  and  withal  more  kind  and  genial  soul  never 


1 82  T7/67  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

inhabited  a  mortal  tenement.  There  was  nothing 
of  the  sour  ascetic  about  Cousin  George,  though  he 
could  fast  at  proper  times,  and  was  self-denying  by 
habit ;  but  he  loved  to  see  and  to  promote  innocent 
enjoyment.  If  ever  any  man  fulfilled  the  command 
to  rejoice  with  those  that  rejoiced,  and  weep  with 
those  that  wept,  he  did,  and  he  was  equally  at  home 
at  the  bridal  or  in  the  house  of  mourning. 

My  other  cousins  all  rose  when  we  came  in,  and 
remained  standing  while  their  father  greeted  my 
mother  with  a  tenderly  spoken  blessing,  and  led 
her  to  a  seat  by  his  side.  They  looked  at  us  with  a 
sort  of  reverence  and  awe,  as  young  folks  of  any 
feeling  are  apt  to  do  upon  those  who  have  just  come 
through  any  great  danger  or  affliction.  There  were 
five  of  them — three  girls,  and  two  little  boys  much 
younger.  I  found  out  afterward  that  the  birth  of 
these  two  twin  boys  cost  the  life  of  their  mother. 

As  soon  as  we  were  seated,  my  Cousin  George 
read  the  tenth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew.  Then  all 
together  sang  a  version  of  the  twenty-third  Psalm  : 

"  My  shepherd  is  the  living  Lord, 

Nothing  therefore  I  need  ; 
In  pastures  green  near  pleasant  Btreams 
He  setteth  me  to  feed." 

Then  my  cousin  read  prayers.  Nobody  who  has 
not  been  placed  in  like  circumstances  can  guess  how 
strange  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  reading  the  holy 
Word  and  singing  psalms  with  open  windows  and 
in  absolute  security.  I  saw  the  girls  look  at  one 
another  and  smile,  but  by  no  means  unkindly,  when 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  183 

I  started  nervously  at  a  passing  footstep  outside. 
It  all  added  to  that  bewilderment  which  had  been 
stealing  over  me  all  the  morning,  and  which  seemed 
now  and  then  to  quite  take  away  all  knowledge  of 
where  I  was  or  what  I  was  doing. 

The  breakfast  was  very  nice,  with  abundance  of 
cream  and  new  milk,  fresh-laid  eggs,  and  brown  and 
white  bread,  but  I  could  take  nothing  save  a  glass 
of  milk,  which  I  had  hard  work  to  dispose  of.  I 
saw  them  all  look  at  me  with  concern,  and  again 
Cousin  Marianne  asked  me  whether  I  were  ill. 

"  No,  madame,"  I  answered  ;  "  1  am  not  ill  at 
all. "  I  caught  a  look  of  surprised  reproof  from  my 
mother,  and  became  aware  that  I  had  answered  pet- 
tishly. ' '  Indeed,  I  am  not  ill, ' '  I  said  more  gently  ; 
"  please  do  not  think  so."  I  suppose  it  was  a  part 
of  the  bewilderment  of  my  head  that  I  somehow 
felt  annoyed  and  hurt  that  any  one  should  think  I 
was  not  well. 

My  cousins  came  round  me  after  breakfast,  and 
carried  me  off  to  the  room  I  had  seen  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

"  This  is  our  own  den,"  said  Katherine,  the  elder 
sister.  "  To-morrow  we  will  show  you  our  books 
and  work.  The  lute  is  Paulina's,  and  the  virginals 
are  mine.  Eleanor  does  not  play  or  sing  at  all." 

"But  she  works  very  nicely,''  put  in  Paulina, 
the  second  sister,  while  Eleanor  never  spoke  a 
word,  but  looked  at  me  like  a  good  dog,  which  says 
with  his  eyes  what  his  tongue  cannot  utter  ;  "  and 
she  can  tell  tales  better  than  any  of  us  when  she  is 


184  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

in   the   mood.       Can  you   tell   tales,    Cousin   Ve- 
vette  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  I  am  sure,"  I  said.  "  I  love 
to  hear  and  read  them.  But  what  is  that  ?"  I 
asked,  with  a  start,  as  the  near  church  bell  swung 
round  and  then  rang  out  loudly.  "  Is  it  an  alarm  ?" 

"  That  is  the  church  bell,"  said  Paulina,  with  a 
little  laugh.  "  How  you  start  at  everything.  I 
noticed  it  when  my  father  was  reading. ' ' 

' '  If  you  had  been  through  what  she  has,  you 
would  start  too,"  said  Eleanor,  speaking  for  the  first 
time.  "  Can't  you  understand  that,  Paul  ?  Will 
you  go  to  church,  cousin  ?" 

"I  don't  believe  she  ought  to  go,"  said  Kath- 
erine  ;  "  she  looks  so  tired  and  overwrought." 

"  I  would  much  rather  go  if  maman  is  willing," 
said  I. 

There  was  some. demur  among  the  elders,  but  it 
was  finally  settled  that  I  might  do  as  I  pleased,  and 
I  presently  found  myself  walking  with  my  cousins 
through  a  shady  lane  which  led  from  the  rectory  to 
the  church.  Once  inside  the  gates  we  found  our- 
selves amid  a  throng  of  people,  all  well-dressed  and 
comfortable-looking,  and,  as  it  seemed,  all  talking 
together  in  an  odd  kind  of  patois  which  was  not 
English,  and  not  any  French  that  I  was  used  to. 
However,  by  a  little  attention  I  understood  the 
tongue  well  enough,  and  I  found  it  not  so  very 
different  from  the  Norman  French  spoken  in  La 
Manche. 

There  were  a  good  many  English  people  in  church, 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  185 

and  some  whom  1  guessed  to  be  French  exiles,  like 
ourselves.  1  saw  Pierre  Le  Febre  seated  along  with 
a  decent-looking  family  of  fisher-folks,  arid  as  I 
glanced  at  him  from  time  to  time  I  saw  him  listen- 
ing with  the  greatest  attention  and  an  air  of  pro- 
•  found  amazement,  not  to  say  alarm,  which  mado 
me  smile.  The  prayers  and  sermon  were  in  the 
language  of  the  island,  but,  as  Katherine  told  me, 
the  afternoon  service  was  always  in  English. 

I  was  still  listening,  as  I  thought,  to  my  cousin's 
sermon,  when  to  my  great  amazement  I  found  my- 
self in  my  little  blue  and  white  bed.  It  was  toward 
evening,  as  I  guessed  by  the  light.  My  mother 
was  bending  over  me,  and  Cousin  Marianne  with  a 
strange  gentleman  were  standing  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bed. 

' '  There  is  a  great  improvement,  madame, ' '  the 
stranger  said  in  English.  "  I  think  I  may  say  that 
with  care  there  is  nothing  more  to  fear.  But  I 
cannot  too  strongly  recommend  absolute  quiet  and 
silence  for  the  present." 

"  What  does  it  mean,  maman  ?"  1  said,  finding 
my  voice  somehow  very  hard  to  get  at,  and  very 
thin  and  tremulous  when  found.  "  I  thought  I  was 
in  church.  Have  I  been  ill  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  love.  You  were  taken  ill  in  church, 
and  were  brought  home.  Do  not  talk  now.  By 
and  by  you  will  understand  all  about  it.  Let  me 
give  you  a  little  food  and  refresh  your  pillow,  and 
then  perhaps  you  will  fall  asleep  again." 

"1  should  like  something  to  eat,"  said  I.      "I 


1 86  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 


feel  hungry,  though  I  could  not  eat  this  morn- 
ing." 

My  mother  smiled  sadly,  and  I  saw  Cousin  Mari- 
anne suddenly  turn  away  to  the  window  almost  a? 
if  she  was  crying.  I  wondered  vaguely  what  she 
was  crying  about,  but  it  did  not  disturb  me.  I  took 
the  cup  of  broth  my  mother  held  to  my  lips,  and 
presently  fell  asleep  again. 

I  lay  in  this  state  of  childish  weakness  for  many 
days  and  weeks,  coming  gradually  to  understand 
that  I  had  been  ill  some  time,  though  I  had  no 
notion  how  long  the  time  was.  The  girls  flitted  in 
and  out,  and  Eleanor  often  sat  by  me  hours  at  a 
time,  working  away  at  her  plain  white  seam.  I 
liked  to  have  her  with  me  best  of  all.  She  never 
put  on  airs  of  bustle  and  authority  like  Katherine, 
who  seemed  to  think  that  the  only  way  to  take  care 
of  a  sick  person  was  never  to  let  that  person  do  or 
have  anything  she  wanted.  Neither  did  she  lean 
against  the  bed,  or  pat  the  floor  with  her  foot,  or  talk 
of  half  a  dozen  things  in  a  minute,  like  good  little 
Paulina,  who  thought  I  needed  to  be  enlivened  and 
diverted.  She  just  sat  quietly,  with  her  sewing, 
where  I  could  see  her  without  any  trouble,  and  was 
always  ready  to  wait  on  me  and  to  save  me  the 
trouble  of  speaking  by  anticipating  my  wants.  My 
mother  said  of  her  that  she  had  the  precious  nurs- 
ing talent,  which  is  one  of  the  best  gifts  ever 
bestowed  on  man  or  woman. 

I  lay  quietly  in  my  bed,  as  1  said,  very  little  troubled 
as  to  the  lapse  of  time  or  anything  else,  taking 


7 he  Chevalier's  Daughter.  187 

what  was  given  me,  perfectly  content  so  long  as  I 
had  my  mother  or  Eleanor  by  me.  I  learned  after- 
ward that  this  long-continued  passiveness  of  mine 
was  a  source  of  great  alarm  to  my  friends,  who 
feared  that  my  mind  was  irretrievably  injured  by 
what  I  had  gone  through.  However,  such  was  not 
the  case.  The  bow  had  been  terribly  strained,  bnt 
not  cracked,  and  by  and  by  it  recovered  its  elas- 
ticity. One  morning  1  woke  feeling  much  stronger, 
and  very  decidedly  interested  about  what  I  was 
going  to  have  to  eat.  The  curtain  was  undrawn 
from  the  casement,  and  I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow 
and  looked  out.  Lo,  the  great  willow  was  hung  with 
catkins,  and  the  hedgerow  was  budding.  What  did 
it  mean  ? 

My  mother  was  resting,  half  asleep,  in  the  great 
chair,  but  roused  herself  and  came  to  the  bedside  as 
I  moved. 

"  Maman,  what  time  of  year  is  it  ?"  I  asked. 

Her  lips  moved,  and  I  was  sure  she  said  "  Thank 
God  !"  Then  she  answered  gently, 

"  It  is  spring,  my  Yevette  ;  the  last  of  March." 

"  March  !"  I  repeated  wonderingly.  "  I  thought 
it  had  been  December.  And  what,  then,  has  become 
of  Christmas  ?" 

"  It  has  gone  where  all  other  Christmases  have 
gone  before  it,  no  doubt,"  answered  my  mother, 
smiling.  "  It  passed  while  you  were  so  ill  that  I 
dared  not  leave  you  for  a  moment,  and  all  the  con- 
gregation on  that  day  prayed  for  you.  Do  you  not 
recollect  anything  of  your  illness  ?" 


i88  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  The  last  I  recollect  clear- 
ly was  being  in  church  listening  to  the  sermon,  and 
then  waking  in  my  room  and  hearing  some  one  say 
1  was  better.  But  that  was  some  days  ago,  was  it 
not  ?" 

u  Some  weeks,"  said  my  mother.  "  But  do  not 
talk  any  more  now.  Here  comes  our  good  Eleanor, 
with  your  breakfast.  The  dear  child  has  been  like 
an  own  daughter  to  me." 

"  I  remember  Eleanor,"  said  I,  taking  her  plump 
hand  in  my  thin  one  and  kissing  it.  "  She  has 
been  here  a  good  many  times.  But  what  are  these 
flowers  ?  Violets  ?  They  really  are  violets  and 
primroses." 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  them,"  said  Eleanor  ; 
"  but  don't  let  your  broth  get  cold  while  you  look 
at  them."  And  she  would  have  fed  me,  but  I  took 
the  spoon  and  helped  myself. 

"  From  this  time  my  recovery  was  rapid.  I  was 
soon  able  to  sit  up  by  the  window,  and  then  to  walk 
about  the  room,  and  at  last  I  got  down -stairs  and 
out  of  doors.  Every  one  was  very  kind  to  me,  and 
I  had  only  one  trouble,  over  which  I  used  to  cry  in 
secret  sometimes.  I  had  a  ravenous  appetite,  and 
though  I  had  half  a  dozen  meals  a  day,  they  would 
not  give  me  half  as  much  as  I  wanted  to  eat. 


CHAPTER   X. 

TO     ENGLAND. 

S  I  said,  my  strength  increased  every  day, 
so  tliat  I  was  soon  able  £6  walk  about  the 
garden  and  to  take  some  long  rides  upon 
my  cousin's  gentle  old  pony,  accompanied 
by  Andrew*  and  sometimes  by  Eleanor,  to  whom  I 
still  clung,  though  I  was  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
the  other  girls.  We  sat  together  in  the  brown  par- 
lor,, as  it  was  called,  with  our  work  or  our  music. 
Katherine  taught  me  to  play  the  virginals  and  also 
the  organ,  on  which  she  was  no  contemptible  per- 
former. I  never  Raw  a  girl  who  could  do  so  many 
different  things  so  well ;  but  she  had  some  faults, 
one  of  which  was  that  she  did  not  know  how  to 
help.  Whatever  was  going  on  she  always  wished 
to  take  the  whole  command,  whether  the  scheme 
was  her  own  or  another  person's.  Paulina  could 
give  advice  as  to  one's  embroidery,  modestly 
point  out  what  she  believed  to  be  improvements, 
and  after  all  be  content  that  you  should  take 
your  own  way  ;  but  Kate  always  had  some  greatly 
better  plan  or  pattern  of  her  own,  and  was  inclined 


I  go  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

to  be  offended  if  one  did  not  adopt  it.  I  observed 
that  the  little  boys,  though  they  were  fond  of 
Katherine,  yet  came  to  Paulina  with  their  little 
manufactures  of  kites,  etc.,  as  well  as  with  their 
lessons,  and  to  Eleanor  with  their  bruises,  cut 
fingers,  and  little  difficulties  of  all  sorts.  In  re- 
turn for  their  instructions  I  taught  the  girls  to 
do  English  cut- work,  to  work  lace,  and  to  knit,  of 
which  accomplishments  they  were  quite  ignorant. 
Cousin  Marianne  was  in  and  out,  up-stairs  and  down, 
looking  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household,  keeping 
every  part  of  the  family  in  place  and  working 
smoothly,  by  using  oil  or  a  rasp,  as  the  case  might 
require.  I  never  saw  any  one  who  better  fulfilled 
the  part  of  the  wise  woman  of  King  Lemuel,  except 
that  she  had  no  husband  to  be  known  in  the  gates 
(I  always  wondered  what  kind  of  woman  King 
Lemuel  married,  after  all  his  mother's  instructions. 
I  dare  say  she  was  some  shiftless,  helpless  beauty, 
who  could  not  mend  her  own  hose,  and  did  not 
know  wheat  from  barley). 

I  must  not  forget  to  say  that  Pierre  Le  Febre  re- 
turned to  La  Manche,  having  been  well  rewarded 
for  his  great  services,  which  money  alone  would 
never  pay  for.  He  was  not  afraid  to  go  back,  as 
he  had  a  plausible  story  enough  to  tell  of  contrary 
winds  and  the  breaking  of  his  boat,  which  was  in- 
deed a  good  deal  damaged.  But  it  seems  he  did 
not  find  himself  comfortable.  Tie  fell  under  sus- 
picion, notwithstanding  all  hra  precautions,  and  he 
was  not  well  treated  by  his  own  family,  who  never 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          191 

forgave  his  marrying  poor  Isabean.  So  one 
night  he  loaded  his  most  valued  possessions  into 
his  boat,  along  -with  his  wife  and  child,  and  ran 
over  to  Jersey.  He  was  hospitably  received, 
on  account  of  the  great  service  he  had  done 
to  my  cousin's  family,  and  he  settled  down  into  a 
respectable,  steady  father  of  a  family,  and  became, 
for  one  in  his  station,  quite  a  rich  man.  All  this 
Eleanor  wrote  me  long  afterward.  Andrew  had 
always  said  that  poor  Le  Febre  had  the  making  of 
a  man  in  him,  and  the  event  showed  he  was  right. 

It  was  a  delightful  novelty  to  have  comrades  of 
my  own  age  to  work  and  play  with,  for,  except  poor 
Lucille,  I  had  never  had  any  girl  friend.  As  the 
spring  came  on,  as  my  strength  increased  and  the 
island  became  more  beautiful  with  every  passing 
day,  I  grew  more  and  more  content,  and  should 
have  been  well  pleased  to  make  Jersey  my  home  as 
long  as  I  lived.  But  my  mother's  health,  which 
seemed  so  well  to  have  borne  the  strain  of  that  ter- 
rible night  and  the  fatigues  of  my  long  illness,  now 
began  to  fail.  She  had  feverish  nights  and  a  slight 
cough,  which  made  Cousin  Marianne  look  grave 
whenever  she  heard  it  ;  and  she  became  restlessly 
anxious  to  go  home,  as  she  said — to  see  once  more 
the  house  where  she  was  born,  and  the  places  where 
she  had  wandered  when  a  child. 

"  It  may  be  an  idle  fancy,"  said  she  one  day  to 
Cousin  Marianne  ;  "  but  since  I  cannot  share  my 
husband's  grave,  I  should  like  to  lie  beside  my 
father  and  mother." 


192  Tke  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

u  Yon  must  not  give  up  life  for  a  bad  business,'' 
said  Cousin  Marianne.  "  Wish  and  try  to  live  for 
your  daughter's  sake." 

"  I  should  strive  to  live,  if  striving  would  do  any 
good,"  said  maman  ;  "but  my  life  is  in  better 
hands  than  mine.  As  to  wishes,  I  believe  I  have 
none,  unless  it  be  this  one — to  dee  Cornwall  once 
more." 

"  I  should  nrge  yon  to  stay  longer  if  I  did  not 
believe  that  your  native  air  might  do  you  good.  I 
have  some  longings  for  a  sight  of  that  same  Cornish 
home  myself,"  she  added,  with  a  little  gentle  sadness 
in  her  voice.  "  It  comes  to  me  in  my  dreams  at 
times,  but  I  can  never  leave  my  cousin  till  one  of 
the  girls  is  old  enough  to  govern  the  family,  and  by 
that  time  I  fancy  I  shall  be  ready  for  a  better  home 
even  than  the  old  house  at  Tre  Madoc. ' ' 

Andrew,  too,  was  anxious  to  depart.  His  ship 
was  to  sail  in  June,  and  he  wished  to  see  us  in 
safety,  and  to  spend  a  little  time  with  his  mother 
and  sisters  before  setting  out  on  his  long  voyage  to 
the  Indies,  whither  his  ship  was  bound.  So  at  last 
it  was  settled  that  we  were  to  sail  for  England  with 
the  first  good  opportunity,  spend  a  few  days  in  Lon- 
don, to  dispose  of  my  mother's  jewels  to  advantage, 
and  then  go  by  sea  to  Plymouth,  from  whence  the 
land  journey  would  be  but  short. 

An  opportunity  was  not  long  delayed,  for  a  good 
merchant-ship,  with  whose  captain  Andrew  was 
well  acquainted,  touched  at  the  island,  and  as  the 
accommodations  were  better  than  any  we  could  have 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  193 

hoped  for,  we  got  ready  and  embarked  without 
delay.  I  gave  my  white  cat  Blaiichon  to  Eleanor. 
I  grieved  to  part  with  him,  for  he  seemed  a  link  to 
my  lost  home,  but  I  should  not  have  known  how  to 
dispose  of  him  in  London,  and  Eleanor  had  grown 
very  fond  of  him  ;  so  I  was  glad  to  do  something 
for  her  in  return  for  all  her  goodness  to  me.  So 
Blanchon  was  left  behind.  I  parted  from  my 
cousins  with  many  tears.  They  are  all  living  still, 
and  the  two  elder  ones  in  homes  of  their  own  ;  but 
Eleanor  has  never  married,  and  now  governs  her 
elder  brother's  house,  as  my  cousin  Marianne  did 
her  father's. 

Our  voyage,  though  somewhat  rough,  was  pros- 
perous, and  the  morning  of  the  third  day  found  us 
in  lodgings  which  Andrew  had  procured  for  us  in  a 
good  situation.  It  was  in  one  of  the  new  streets 
which  had  been  built  upon  the  ground  covered  by 
the  great  fire,  and  was  therefore  clean  in  compari- 
son with  other  parts  of  the  town  ;  but  oh,  how 
dingy  and  dirty  and  forlorn  it  all  seemed  to  me  ! 
It  is  true,  many  of  the  buildings  were  very  magnifi- 
cent, and  the  equipages  quite  wonderful  to  my 
country  eyes  ;  but  what  did  that  matter  when  half 
the  time  one  could  not  see  them  for  the  fog  and 
the  smoke  of  the  sea-coal,  a  kind  of  fuel  of  which 
I  knew  nothing?  I  well  remember  my  dismay 
when,  on  putting  my  hand  on  the  banister  in  going 
down  stairs,  1  found  it  as  begrimed  as  a  black- 
smith's. 

We  remained  in  London  about  two  weeks.     My 


194  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

Uncle  Charles,  my  mother's  brother,  was  out  of 
town  with  his  family  when  we  first  arrived,  but  ho 
Boon  returned,  and  came  at  once  to  see  us,  with  his 
wife.  They  were  a  very  fine  lady  and  gentleman 
indeed,  and  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  the  fashion. 
My  aunt  especially  was  quite  wonderful  to  behold, 
with  her  great  bush  of  false  hair,  almost  white, 
which  formed  an  odd  contrast  to  her  dark  eyes  and 
eyebrows.  Her  forehead  and  cheeks  were  spotted 
with  patches  in  the  form  of  crescents,  stars,  and 
what  not,  and  she  wore  the  richest  of  brocades  with 
heaps  of  silver  lace.  She  was  a  very  pretty  woman, 
and  very  good-natured  as  well,  though  rather 
affected.  I  admired  her  hugely,  as  the  first  speci- 
men of  a  fine  lady  I  had  ever  seen.  They  were 
very  kind  and  attentive  to  us,  and  my  aunt  was 
earnest  with  my  mother  to  remain  with  her,  instead 
of  going  down  into  that  barbarous  Cornwall,  as  she 
called  it. 

"  Meg  does  not  think  it  a  barbarous  desert,  you 
see,' '  said  my  uncle,  with  some  pique  in  his  voice,  I 
thought.  "  And  as  you  have  never  seen  it  and  she 
has,  she  is  perhaps  the  better  judge. " 

"  But  such  a  lonely  place,"  said  my  lady,  with  a 
very  little  pout  ;  "no  society,  no  gentry  !  I 
should  die  of  megrims  in  a  week." 

"  Margaret  will  not  die  of  megrims,  I'll  engage," 
said  my  uncle  ;  "  nor  my  niece  here.  Come  here, 
child,  and  let  us  look  at  you.  I  protest,  Margaret, 
she  is  a  beauty.  Leave  her  with  us,  if  you  will  not 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter,  195 

remain  yourself,  and  we  will  find  her  a  good  hus- 
band.'' 

"  Vevette's  market  is  already  made,''  said  my 
mother,  smiling,  though  I  could  see  she  was  annoyed. 
' '  You  know  it  was  an  old  family  compact  that  she 
is  to  marry  her  cousin  Andrew,  and  both  the  young 
folks  are  well  suited  therewith." 

"  Andrew  Corbet  !  Why,  he  is  not  even  a  cap- 
tain, and  the  estate  at  Tre  Madoc  cannot  be  worth 
more  than  four  hundred  a  year  all  told,1'  said  my 
uncle.  "  Besides,  unless  he  abandons  his  profession 
the  child  will  be  a  widow  without  any  of  the  advan- 
tages of  widowhood.  There,  I  beg  yonr  pardon, 
Meg.  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you. ' ' 

My  mother  made  no  reply,  but  began  to  ask  after 
other  members  of  the  family — the  Stantons  and 
Corbets  of  Devonshire. 

"  Oh,  poor  "Walter  is  dead  of  the  plague,  and  his 
young  wife  also  !  He  married  a  girl  young  enough 
to  be  his  daughter,  and  a  great  beauty,  but  neither 
of  them  lived  long." 

"  I  thought  his  wife  was  that  Margaret  Matou, 
who  lived  at  the  court  with  the  former  Lady  Stan- 
ton,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Yes,  she  was  his  first  wife,  and  a  charming 
creature,  I  must  say,  though  not  handsome  ;  but 
the. second  was  quite  different.  However,  she  died, 
poor  thing,  and  left  no  children,  so  the  old  house 
stands  empty  at  present." 

"  There  was  a  daughter,  was  there  not  ?" 

u  Yes,  she  lives  with  Mr.  Evelyn,  her  guardian, 


196  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

who  is  bringing  her  up  in  his  strait-laced  fashion." 

"  To  be  a  companion  to  his  pattern  Mrs.  Godol- 
phin,"  said  his  wife,  laughing. 

"He  might  do  worse,"  returned  my  uncle. 
"  But  come,  sister  D'Antin,  make  up  your  mind 
to  leave  your  daughter  with  us  for  her  education. 
I  assure  you  she  will  have  every  care  and  advantage 
of  masters,  and  we  will  make  her  a  girl  you  shall 
be  proud  of.'' 

My  aunt  seconded  the  invitation  most  kindly, 
but  my  mother  was  quite  firm  in  declining  it.  We 
promised  them  a  visit,  however,  to  my  secret  de- 
light. "When  Andrew  came  back  from  the  navy 
office,  whither  he  had  been  to  report  himself,  and 
heard  what  had  passed,  his  brow  darkened,  and  he 
said  anxiously, 

"  You  will  not  surely  think  of  it,  aunt.  You 
will  not  leave  our  Yevette  here  to  be  made  a  fine 
lady  of  ?" 

"  Have  no  fear,  Andrew,"  answered  my  mother. 
"  Nothing  is  farther  from  my  thoughts  than  to  put 
my  child  into  such  hands.  I  would  almost  as  soon 
have  her  in  the  hospital  with  poor  Lucille." 

"  1  am  sure  my  uncle  and  aunt  seem  very  kind," 
said  I  rather  indignantly,  and  feeling  somehow 
vexed  that  Andrew  should  say  "  our  Yevette," 
though  he  had  often  done  so  before.  I  was  quite 
dazzled,  in  truth,  by  the  splendor  of  these  new  re- 
lations, who  revived  in  some  degree  my  old  day- 
dreams. 

"  They  are  so  in  their  way,  but  that  way  is  not 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          197 

ours,"  said  my  mother  ;  "  and  even  were  the  ad- 
vantages they  offer  greater  than  I  think  them,  I  do 
not  believe  my  child  would  wish  to  leave  her  mother 
for  their  sake." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !"  I  cried,  feeling  for  the  moment 
all  I  said  ;  "  not  for  worlds." 

"  That  is  settled,  then,"  said  my  mother.  "  And 
now  tell  us,  Andrew,  where  have  you  been  ?" 

Andrew  told  us  he  had  been  to  the  naval  office, 
where  he  had  met  an  old  friend,  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys, 
with  whom,  knowing  him  to  be  a  man  of  honor  and 
wise  in  such  matters,  he  had  taken  counsel  as  to  the 
sale  of  my  mother's  jewels.  He  said  further  that 
Mr.  Pepys  believed  he  could  find  a  merchant  who 
would  give  good  value  for  the  said  jewels,  and  that 
the  gentleman  proposed  to  bring  his  wife  to  visit  us 
on  the  morrow,  if  it  would  be  agreeable. 

"  I  must  warn  you  not  to  judge  him  by  the  out- 
side, for  he  is  a  vain  little  fellow  in  some  ways," 
said  Andrew,  smiling  ;  "  but  he  is  in  truth  a  good 
man,  and  his  wife  is  a  bright  little  body. ' ' 

Of  course  my  mother  could  say  no  less  than  that 
we  should  esteem  the  visit  an  honor,  and  the  next 
morning  they  came.  I  had  thought  my  uncle's 
dress  wonderful  fine,  but  it  was  nothing  to  that 
of  Mr.  Pepys,  though  1  must  say  the  latter  was 
both  richer  in  itself  and  better  fancied.  His  wife 
was  a.  pretty,  black  woman,  who  spoke  French  very 
nicely,  and  indeed  it  was  in  some  sort  her  native 
tongue.  Mr.  Pepys  bought  some  of  my  mother's 
lesser  jewels  himself,  especially  a  diamond  in  a 


198  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

clasp  which  his  wife  fancied,  and  promised  to  find 
a  purchaser  for  the  rest — a  promise  which  he  ful- 
filled to  our  great  advantage.  His  conversation 
was  an  odd  mixture  of  worldly  shrewdness  and  an 
almost  childlike  simplicity,  but  I  observed  with  ap- 
proval that  he  did  not  load  his  discourse  with  oaths 
as  my  uncle,  and  even  his  wife,  had  done.  On  the 
whole  I  liked  our  new  friends  very  well,  and  when 
he  proposed  to  carry  me  out  and  show  me  some- 
thing of  the  parks  and  the  city,  I  looked  to  my 
mother  rather  anxiously  for  her  approval.  She 
made  no  objection  ;  so  Mr.  Pepys  came  by  and  by 
with  his  coach  (which  I  fancy  he  had  not  possessed 
a  great  wliile,  he  seemed  so  proud  of  it),  and  took 
us  into  the  park,  and  there  showed  us  many  great 
lords  and  ladies,  pointing  out  to  us,  with  a  kind  of 
awful  reverence,  my  Lady  Castlemain,  and  some 
other  person  of  the  same  stamp.  I  saw  my  mother 
flush  as  with  indignation  as  she  said,  half  to  her- 
self, 

"  And  it  is  in  such  a  world  as  this  that  they  would 
have  me  leave  my  child  to  be  brought  up  !" 

"  You  must  not  tliink,  madame,  that  all  the 
ladies  about  the  court  are  like  these, "said  Mr. 
Pepys.  "  There  are  many  who  bring  up  their 
families  in  all  virtue  and  godly  living,  like  my  good 
Lady  Sandwich  and  others  I  could  name.  But  I 
am  quite  of  your  mind  as  to  Mrs.  Genevieve^and  if 
I  were  so  happy  as  to  be  blessed  with  a  daughter, 
she  should,  if  possible,  grow  up  in  the  country. 
His  Majesty  is  a  most  noble  prince — Heaven  bless 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          199 

him,  with  all  my  heart ! — but  his  example  in  some 
things  hath  done  our  young  people  little  good." 

It  seemed  that  the  merchant  to  whom  we  hoped 
to  dispose  of  our  jewels  was  out  of  town,  but  as  he 
was  to  return  in  a  few  days  Andrew  advised  us  to 
wait  for  him.  Meantime,  at  their  earnest  entreaty, 
we  spent  a  few  days  with  my  uncle  and  aunt.  My 
mother  indeed  passed  much  of  her  time  in  her  own 
apartment,  which,  as  her  widowhood  was  so  recent, 
no  one  could  decently  object  to ;  but  I  went  out 
several  times  with  my  aunt  to  the  park,  and  even  to 
"Whitehall,  where  I  saw  the  king  and  queen,  and 
many  great  people  besides.  It  seemed  that  the  king 
had  heard  something  of  our  story  ;  at  all  events  he 
noticed  me,  and  asking  who  I  was,  I  was  informally 
presented  to  him.  There  was-  less  formality  about 
the  court  at  that  time  than  ever  has  been  before  or 
since.  He  spoke  kindly  to  me— for  he  was  always 
kind  when  it  cost  him  nothing — asked  after  my 
mother,  and  made  me  a  compliment  on  my  good 
looks.  I  noticed  after  this  that  my  aunt  was  rather 
in  a  hurry  to  get  me  away,  and  she  never  took  me 
thither  again. 

But  the  mischief  was  done.  All  my  old  day- 
dreams of  wealth  and  ambition  waked  to  life  again, 
and  I  began  to  indulge  them  more  and  more.  My 
conscience  did  not  let  me  fall  into  my  old  courses 
without  warning  me,  it  is  true  ;  but  I  began  to  dis- 
regard its  teachings,  and  to  repine  at  the  strict  man- 
ner in  which  I  had  been  brought  up.  I  had  grown 
very  handsome  since  my  illness,  and  I  was  quite 


200  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

iiware  of  the  fact — as  what  girl  is  not  ? — and  when  I 
was  ;rway  from  my  mother's  side  and  in  my  aunt's 
drawing-room  I  received  many  flourishing  compli- 
ments, such  as  were  then  in  fashion,  from  the  gallants 
<.vho  visited  her.  I  soon  began  to  compare  my  good 
Andrew  with  these  fine  gentlemen,  not  at  all  to  his 
advantage,  and  I  wished,  if  it  were  my  fate  to  marry 
him,  that  he  had  a  more  genteel  figure,  and  knew 
better  how  to  set  himself  off.  My  aunt  and  uncle 
did  not  scruple  to  say  before  me  that  it  was  a  shame 
I  should  so  so  sacrificed — sent  down  to  the  country 
to  be  brought  up  by  a  set  of  Puritans,  and  married 
to  another,  without  any  chance  to  raise  myself  by  a 
good  match,  as  I  might  easily  do. 

"  'Tis  a  poor  thing  for  Andrew,  too,"  I  heard 
my  uncle  say  one  day  ;  "  he  ought  to  marry  some 
rich  merchant's  daughter,  and  renew  his  estate/' 

"  Why  do  you  not  tell  him  so  ?"  asked  my  aunt. 
"  There  is  Mrs.  Mary  Bake  well,  who  would  jump 
at  the  chance  of  making  herself  a  lady  with  her 
thousands.  Truly,  she  is  plain  enough,  and  some- 
thing the  elder,  but  she  is  a  good  creature  after  all. 
Why  not  propose  it  to  him  ?" 

"I  did,"  replied  my  uncle,  laughing;  "and 
you  should  have  seen  him.  He  treated  me  to  a  real 
Cornish  thunder-gust. ' ' 

"  Why,  what  did  he  say  ?"  asked  my  aunt,  while 
I  listened  with  all  my  ears,  as  we  say. 

"  He  said  he  would  rather  travel  the  country 
with  an  ass  and  panniers,  selling  sand  to  the  old 
wives,  than  sell  his  manhood  for  a  fortune.  I  said 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          201 

the  lady  was  a  good  lady,  and  well  nurtured,  and 
he  answered,  '  So  much  the  worse, '  and  then  added, 
'  You  mean  kindly,  I  dare  say,  and  I  thank  you, 
but  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  desire  to  love  my 
wife.'  " 

"He  is  a  rustic,  without  doubt,"  returned  my 
lady,  with  a  little  touch  of  sarcasm  iu  her  voice. 
"  I  think  you  may  as  well  let  matters  stand  as  they 
are,  Charles.  You  will  gain  nothing  by  meddling, 
and  'tis  but  a  thankless  office,  educating  of  other 
people's  children." 

' '  I  believe  you  may  be  right, ' '  said  my  uncle, 
"and  yet  1  confess  I  should  like  to  keep  the 
girl."  ' 

My  aunt  made  no  reply,  and  the  conversation 
was  dropped.  I  must  say  1  looked  on  Andrew 
with  a  good  deal  more  favor  after  this.  It  was 
something  to  have  a  servant  (that  was  the  fine  phrase 
at  that  time)  who  had  refused  a  great  match  for  my 
sake. 

Our  visit  at  my  uncle's  was  cut  rather  short  from 
two  circumstances,  I  fancy.  One  was  that  he  was 
displeased  my  mother  should  have  taken  Mr.  Pepys' 
advice  about  selling  her  jewels.  My  lady  herself 
had  a  fancy  for  these  same  jewels,  and  would  have 
bought  them  on  credit,  which  we  could  ill  afford  ; 
besides  which  my  mother  told  Andrew  and  me  that 
it  was  not  well  to  have  money  transactions  between 
near  relatives. 

"  They  are  sure  to  lead  to  misunderstanding  and 
coldness,  if  not  to  open  rupture,"  said  she.  "  More- 


2O2  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

over,  from  what  I  have  seen  I  believe  my  brother 
to  be  already  embarrassed  with  debts." 

"  I  know  it  for  a  fact,"  said  Andrew  ;  "  and  I 
believe  you  have  done  wisely.  Mr.  Bakewell  is 
now  returned,  and  is  ready  to  treat  with  you  for  the 
jewels  at  any  time." 

"  Then  we  will  finish  the  affair  as  soon  as  may  be, 
that  we  may  turn  our  faces  homeward,"  replied  my 
mother.  "  I  long  for  the  sight  of  green  trees  and 
running  streams,  and,  above  all,  for  a  cup  of  cold 
water  from  St.  Monica's  well.  I  can  see  it  now, 
bubbling  up  under  the  ruined  arch,"  she  added 
musingly,  with  that  far-away  look  which  had  lately 
come  to  her  eyes.  "  Some  day,  Andrew,  you 
must  restore  that  arch." 

"  I  will,"  said  Andrew,  with  a  certain  solemnity, 
and  they  were  both  silent  a  moment.  Then  he 
added,  more  cheerfully,  "  Then  I  will  tell  the  good 
woman  at  our  lodgings  that  you  will  return  to-mor- 
row." 

"  This  afternoon,"  said  my  mother  ;  and  BO  it 
was  settled. 

I  believe  another  reason  why  my  mother  was 
willing  to  cut  her  visit  short  was  that  she  saw  the 
influence  my  aunt  and  her  way  were  beginning  to 
have  upon  me.  I  shall  never  forget  how  she  looked 
at  me  when,  in  some  fit  of  impatience  with  my  work, 
I  gave  vent  to  one  of  my  aunt's  modish  oaths. 
Those  of  the  Religion  in  France  looked  upon  all 
such  expressions  with  as  much  abhorrence  as  the 
Puritans  of  England  or  America. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  203 

"  Genevieve,"  said  she  sternly,  "what  would 
your  father  say  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  anything,"  said  I,  abashed  and 
vexed  at  the  same  time. 

"And  there  is  just  the  fault,"  returned  my 
mother.  "  Against  what  is  the  commandment 
aimed,  if  not  at  the  use  of  sacred  names  without 
meaning  anything  ?" 

I  did  not  reply,  of  course,  and  I  was  more  careful 
in  future,  but  inwardly  I  murmured  at  my  mother's 
strictness  and  Puritanism,  as  I  called  it.  I  had 
learned  this  phrase  from  my  uncle  and  his  friends, 
with  whom  everything  serious  or  reverent  was 
Puritanism. 

I  should  have  said  that  I  went  to  church  on  Sun- 
day with  my  uncle  and  aunt.  I  was  quite  amazed 
at  the  splendor  of  the  church,  which  had  recently 
been  refitted,  and  deligh  Led  with  the  service,  espe- 
cially with  the  chanting  and  singing.  The  sermon 
also  I  thought  very  good,  though  I  did  not  quite 
like  the  preacher's  manner.  But  if  I  was  pleased 
with  the  clergyman,  I  was  horrified  at  the  manners 
of  the  congregation.  I  saw  the  fine  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen bowing  and  courtesying  to  each  other,  whis- 
pering— nay,  all  but  talking  aloud — and  passing 
snuff-boxes  and  smelling-bottles  back  and  forth. 
One  of  the  gentlemen  I  had  seen  at  my  aunt's  the 
day  before  bowed  to  me  as  he  came  in,  but  I  looked 
the  other  way. 

"  What  a  gracey  sermon — just  like  a  Presbyte- 
rian,'' said  my  aunt,  yawning,  without  any  disguise, 


204  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

almost  before  the  congregation  was  dismissed. 
"  And  why  did  you  not  courtesy  when  Mr.  Butler 
bowed  to  you  ?  Did  you  not  see  him  ?*' 

Then  I  made  one  of  the  great  mistakes  of  my 
life.  I  yielded  to  that  miserable  shame  of  doing 
right,  which  is  the  undoing  of  so  many,  and 
answered,  "  I  was  looking  another  way." 

11  Oh,  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  against  your  prin- 
ciples," said  my  aunt,  in  that  light  tone  of  contempt 
which  always  stung  me  to  the  quick.  "  I  know 
some  of  our  Puritans  will  not  acknowledge  a  salute 
in  church.  I  don't  believe  my  old  Lady  Crewe 
would  return  a  bow  from  the  king  himself,  if 
prayers  had  begun." 

"  Yes,  she  is  true  to  her  colors,"  said  my  uncle. 
"  I  like  her  the  better  for  it  too,"  and  he  sighed  a 
little.  I  heard  afterward  that  he  had  been  a  great 
precisian  in  the  days  of  the  Protector,  though,  like 
many  others  of  the  same  sort,  he  went  to  the  other 
extreme  now.  Their  fear  of  God,  like  mine  own, 
was  taught  by  the  precept  of  men,  and  therefore  was 
easily  enough  overthrown  by  the  same. 

"  But  you  must  have  your  wits  about  you,  child," 
said  my  aunt.  "  'Tis  a  dreadfully  uncivil  thing 
not  to  return  a  salute.  Mr.  Butler  will  think  you  a 
little  rustic." 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  was  more  troubled  at 
the  thought  that  Mr.  Butler  should  think  me  a  rus- 
tic than  at  the  lie  I  had  told.  When  I  came  to  my 
mother,  she  asked  me  of  the  sermon,  and  I  told  her 
all  I  could  remember. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          205 

"  'Tis  a  great  privilege  to  hear  the  blessed  "Word 
preached  openly  to  all  the  people,"  said  my  mother, 
sighing  a  little. 

"  'Tis  a  privilege  a  good  many  do  not  seem  to 
appreciate,"  said  Andrew,  who  had  come  in  as  usual 
to  see  my  mother  ;  "  you  should  see  the  king  and 
countess  at  church,  madame.  The  Duke  of  York 
spent  the  whole  of  sermon-time  this  morning  talk- 
ing and  laughing  with  some  painted  madams  or 
other,  through  the  curtains  of  the  pews.  If  my 
cousin  had  been  the  preacher,  I  believe  he  would 
have  spoken  to  them  before  all  the  congregation. 
What  can  you  expect  when  our  rulers  set  such  an 
example  ?" 

"  What  did  the  king  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"  He  was  more  attentive  to  the  preacher.  He  is 
not  one  to  hurt  any  one's  feelings  by  incivility, 
though  he  would  not  care  for  his  going  to  the  rack, 
so  he  did  not  see  it." 

"  Hush,  my  son  !"  said  my  mother  reprovingly. 
"  'Tis  a  besetting  sin  of  yours  to  speak  evil  of 
dignities." 

Andrew  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  he  had  too 
much  respect  to  answer  my  mother  back  again. 

But  I  am  going  back  in  my  story.  That  very 
afternoon  we  returned  to  our  lodgings.  Our  friends 
took  leave  of  us  cordially  enough,  and  my  aunt  made 
me  several  very  pretty  presents,  especially  of  a 
pocket  working  equipage,  containing  scissors,  nee- 
dles, thimble,  and  other  implements,  beautifully 
wrought,  and  packed  in  a  very  small  compass. 


206  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

Besides  these  she  gave  me  a  volume  of  plays  and 
poems,  which  last,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  did  not 
show  to  my  mother.  My  mother  presented  her 
with  a  handsome  clasp  of  Turkey  stones  and  pearls, 
and  my  uncle  with  a  gold  snuff-box,  which  had  be- 
longed to  her  husband's  father,  and  had  a  picture  of 
some  reigning  beauty — I  forget  whom — enamelled 
on  the  lid  ;  so  we  all  parted  friends. 

The  next  day  being  Sunday  we  went  to  a  French 
Protestant  church,  where  the  worship  was  carried 
on  according  to  the  forms  used  by  us  in  our  own 
country.  There  had  been  an  attempt  made  in  the 
days  of  Charles  the  First  to  compel  the  French 
Protestants  to  conform  to  the  Church  of  England, 
but  it  had  not  been  carried  out  in  the  present  reign. 
Great  numbers  of  the  refugees  did  in  fact  conform 
to  the  church,  and  indeed  take  orders  therein,  not 
considering  the  differences  as  essential  ;  but  others 
preferred  the  ways  they  were  used  to,  and  these  had 
chapels  of  their  own.  It  was  to  one  of  these 
churches,'  in  Threadneedle  Street,  that  we  went ; 
and  here  a  great  surprise  awaited  us. 

We  were  no  sooner  seated  than  I  began  to  have 
that  feeling  we  have  all  experienced,  that  some  one 
was  looking  earnestly  at  me,  and  turning  my  head 
about  I  saw  in  the  gallery  Simon  and  Jeanne  Sa- 
blot.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  ;  but  there  they 
were,  decent  as  usual,  though  poorly  dressed  enough, 
and  sadly  changed  since  I  had  seen  them  last. 
Simon's  hair  was  white  as  snow,  and  Jeanne's  ruddy 
cheeks  were  faded  and  sunken.  They  both  smiled, 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  207 

and  then  Jeanne's  face  was  buried  in  her  hands  and 
her  frame  shaken  with  sobs.  I  had  no  time  to 
direct  my  mother's  attention  to  them,  for  the  minis- 
ter at  that  moment  entered  the  desk  and  the  service 
began.  Here  was  no  whispering,  no  exchange  of 
salutes  or  snuff-boxes.  Many  of  those  before  the 
preacher  had  but  just  escaped  from  their  enemies, 
thankful  to  have  their  lives  given  them  for  a  prey,  as 
the  prophet  says  ;  and  it  was  to  them  a  wonderful 
thing  to  attend  upon  their  worship  openly  and  in 
safety.  It  was  not  the  regular  minister  who 
preached,  but  one  who  had  but  lately  escaped  from 
the  house  of  bondage,  and  was  able  to  give  us  the 
latest  account  of  the  unhappy  country  we  had  left 
behind.  It  was  a  sad  tale  of  oppressive  edicts,  press- 
ing always  more  and  more  severely  upon  our  breth- 
ren ;  of  families  desolated  and  scattered  ;  of  temples 
pulled  down  and  congregations  dispersed.  There 
were  still  sadder  tales  to  be  told,  of  abjurations  and 
apostasies — some  forced  by  harshness,  others  brought 
about  by  bribes  and  cajolery.  Then  the  preacher 
changed  his  tone  and  spoke  of  midnight  assemblies, 
like  that  of  ours  in  the  cellar  of  the  old  grange  ;  of 
consist6ries  held  and  discipline  administered  in 
caves  and  lonely  places  of  the  mountains,  and  of 
our  fallen  brethren  coming,  with  tears  and  on 
bended  knees,  imploring  to  be  restored  to  that  com- 
munion to  which  to  belong  meant  shame,  imprison- 
ment, and  death.  The  old  man's  face  shone  and  his 
voice  rang  like  a  trumpet  as  he  told  of  these  things, 
stirring  every  heart  in  the  assembly,  even  mine.  I 


208  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter 

felt  miserably  ashamed  of  my  late  frame  of  f.>  •„.<!, 
and  resolved  that  I  would  forsake  the  world,  and 
live  for  heaven  once  more. 

The  sermon  was  long,  but  it  came  to  a  close  at 
last,  and  the  Lord's  Supper  was  administered.  It. 
was  then  that  my  mother  discovered  our  two  old 
friends.  I  feared  at  first  that  she  would  faint,  but 
she  recovered  herself,  and  when  they  came  to  us 
after  sermon  she  was  far  calmer  and  more  collected 
than  they  were.  She  invited  them  home  to  our 
lodgings,  which  were  not  far  distant,  and  they  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day  with  us. 

"  How  and  when  did  you  leave  home  ?"  was 
naturally  the  first  question. 

"  About  two  weeks  after  the  house  was  burned, 
madame,"  answered  Simon. 

"  It  is  burned,  then,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Oh,  yes,  madame.  The  mob  plundered  it 
thoroughly  and  then  set  it  on  fire,  and  little  is  left 
but  the  shell.  A  fine  gentleman  came  down  from 
Paris  a  few  days  afterward.  lie  was  very  angry  at 
the  destruction,  and  threatened  all  sorts  of  things  if 
the  plunder  was  not  brought  back,  but  he  recovered 
very  little.  Our  house  was  also  set  on  fire,  but 
owing  to  the  rains  it  did  not  burn,  and  after  a  few 
days  we  ventured  to  return  to  it  and  gathered  to- 
gether some  few  things.  I  have  a  parcel  for  you, 
madame,  intrusted  to  my  care  by  Monsieur,  which 
the  wretches  did  not  find.  Our  small  store  of  ready 
money  also  escaped  their  hands.  David,  whom  you 
know  wo  were  expecting,  came  just  then,  and  we 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          209 

returned  with  him  to  Dieppe,  and  after  a  week  or 
two  he  found  us  a  passage  to  England.  As  I  said, 
we  had  a  small  store  of  ready  money,  but  it  soon 
melted  away,  and  though,  by  Jeanne's  skill  in  lace- 
making  and  mending  and  my  own  work  with  a 
market  gardener,  we  have  made  shift  to  live,  it  has 
been  poorly  enough.  But  why  should  we  complain  ? 
We  are  in  safety,  and  can  worship  God  according  to 
our  conscience." 

"  But  David  !"  said  I. 

"  He  would  not  come,  mamselle.  He  is  in  high 
favor  with  his  employer,  who  protects  him,  and  he 
says  he  has  so  many  opportunities  of  helping  others 
that  he  will  not  as  yet  abandon  his  post.  Besides, 
he  cherishes  a  hope,  though  I  believe  it  is  a  vain 
one,  of  rescuing  Lucille." 

"  Why  do  you  think  it  a  vain  one  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Because,  mamselle,  she  does  not  wish  to  be 
rescued.  She  has  made  a  profession,  as  they  call  it, 
and  we  hear  she  is  high  in  favor  with  her  superiors, 
and  a  willing  instrument  in  their  hands  in  coaxing 
or  compelling  the  poor  little  children  to  abjure. 
We  thought  it  a  great  mercy  when  she,  the  last 
of  five  babes,  was  spared  to  us  ;  but  now  I  wish  she 
had  died  in  the  cradle,  like  the  rest." 

"  She  is  not  yet  out  of  the  reach  of  mercy,  my 
poor  Simon,"  said  my  mother.  "We  must  all 
remember  her  in  our  prayers. ' '  She  paused,  and 
then  added,  with  a  great  effort, 

"Do  you  know  what  became  of  my  husband's 
body?" 


2 1  o  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  He  rests  in  peace,  madame,"  answered  Sablot. 
"  Jean  La  Roche  and  myself  buried  him  at  mid- 
night, by  the  side  of  my  own  babes,  in  our  orchard. 
We  levelled  the  ground  and  laid  back  the  turf,  BO 
that  none  should  suspect." 

My  mother  rose  and  left  the  room,  making  me  a 
sign  not  to  follow  her.  When  she  came  back  at  the 
end  of  an  hour  she  had  evidently  been  weeping 
bitterly  ;  but  she  was  now  quite  calm.  She  asked 
many  questions  about  our  servants,  our  tenants,  and 
neighbors.  The  maids  had  all  escaped,  in  one  way 
or  other,  he  told  us.  Julienne,  he  thought,  would 
conform,  as  her  sweetheart  was  earnest  with  her  to 
do  so.  Marie  had  gone  to  Charenton.  Old  Math- 
ew  was  found  dead  in  the  orchard,  but  without 
any  marks  of  violence,  and  Simon  thought  he  had 
died  of  the  shock,  as  he  was  a  very  old  man.  Of 
Henri  he  knew  nothing. 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  my  poor  friends  ?"  said 
my  mother.  "  How  can  we  help  you  ?  If  I  were 
not  going  to  the  house  of  another  I  would  take  you 
with  me." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  do  very  well,  madame,"  said 
Jeanne  cheerfully.  "  I  get  a  great  deal  of  fine 
washing  and  mending,  especially  of  lace,  and  if  Si- 
mon could  buy  some  turner's  tools  of  his  own  he 
might  set  up  a  little  shop." 

"  I  have  a  better  plan  than  that,"  said  Andrew. 
"  My  mother  writes  me  that  our  old  gardener  is  just 
dead,  and  she  knows  not  where  to  find  another. 
You  shall  go  down  to  Cornwall  and  take  his  place. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter,          2 1 1 

As  for  Jeanne,  she  can  wait  upon  inadame,  and 

each  old  Deborah  to  make  omelettes  and  galette. 

That  will  be  better  than  living  in  a  dingy  street  in 

London,  will  it  not  ?" 

"  May  Heaven's  blessing  rest  upon  you,  my  sou," 
said  my  mother,  while  my  poor  foster-parents  could 
hardly  speak  a  word,  so  overpowered  were  they 
with  the  prospect  suddenly  opened  before  them.  I 
was  as  pleased  as  my  mother,  and  at  that  moment 
would  not  have  exchanged  my  sailor  for  the  finest 
gallant  about  the  court. 

The  next  day  the  business  of  the  jewels  was  fin- 
ished, and  so  favorably  for  us  that  we  were  made 
quite  independent  in  point  of  means.  My  mother 
insisted  on  Simon's  retaining  at  least  half  of  the 
package  of  gold  he  had  brought  away  with  him, 
and  which  he  had  never  broken  in  upon  in  his 
greatest  needs,  and  Jeanne  was  soon  neatly  dressed 
in  English  mourning.  In  a  few  days  we  embarked 
with  ah1  our  goods,  which  indeed  were  not  burden- 
some by  reason  of  quantity,  in  a  ship  going  to 
Plymouth.  We  had  a  short  and  prosperous  voy- 
age, and  after  resting  a  day  or  two  in  Plymouth  we 
took  horse  for  the  far  more  toilsome  journey  into 
Cornwall. 


CHAPTEK  XI. 


THE  MADOC. 

T  was  a  toilsome  journey.  Andrew  had 
taken  great  pains  to  provide  easy  horses 
for  us,  and  we  carried  some  comforts  in  the 
way  of  provisions,  biscuits,  gingerbread, 
two  or  three  flasks  of  wine,  and  small  packages  of 
coffee,  and  one  of  the  new  Chinese  drink  called  tea, 
which  had  just  begun  to  come  in  fashion,  and  which 
has  now  become  quite  common,  even  in  tradesmen's 
families.  For  this,  as  for  many  other  kindnesses,  we 
were  indebted  to  Mr.Pepys  and  his  good  little  wife. 
We  did  not  travel  very  rapidly,  the  roads  being 
bad,  even  at  this  time  of  the  year,  and  such  as  in 
many  places  forbade  our  travelling  otherwise  than 
in  single  tile.  The  weather  was  charming — that 
was  one  comfort — and  the  air  as  delicious  as  any  I 
ever  breathed  in  ray  life.  As  we  crossed  the  high 
moors,  we  saw  abundance  of  those  old  heathen  monu- 
ments which  abound  in  Normandy,  and  still  more 
in  Brittany,  and  once  we  passed  one  almost  exactly 
like  that  above  our  orchard,  where  my  father  and  I 
had  our  memorable  conversation.  We  stopped  for 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          213 

rest  and  refreshment  in  littlo  country  towns,  and 
sometimes  at  lonely  inns  standing  by  themselves, 
such  as  would  not  have  been  considered  very  safe 
abiding-places  in  France,  and  where  we  should  have 
been  at  a  loss  to  make  ourselves  understood  but  for 
Andrew  and  the  sailor  whom  he  had  taken  along 
from  Plymouth.  The  Cornish  tongue,  which  is  now 
fallen  greatly  into  disuse,  was  at  that  time  generally 
spoken  among  the  common  people.  I  picked  up  a 
good  deal  of  it  afterward,  but  at  that  time  it  was  all 
heathen  Greek  to  me,  though  my  mother  could 
speak  it  a  little.  I  must  needs  say  that,  though  we 
must  have  appeared  as  outlandish  to  them  as  they 
did  to  us,  the  good  folks  were  most  kind  to  us,  espe- 
cially when  they  had  heard  something  of  our  story. 
They  would  express  their  sympathy  by  sighs  and 
tears,  and  by  bringing  out  to  us  the  best  that  they 
had  ;  and  the  men  would  often  leave  their  work  and 
walk  miles  beside  us  to  guide  us  on  our  way. 

Simon  kept  up  his  courage  very  well,  and  indeed 
he  enjoyed  the  journey  ;  but  poor  Jeanne's  spirits 
sank  lower  and  lower,  and  I  think  she  would  have 
given  out  altogether  had  we  not  come,  on  the  fifth 
day,  to  cultivated  fields  and  orchards.  The  sight 
of  these  last  revived  her  drooping  courage,  and 
when  at  last  we  reached  the  village  of  Tre  Madoc, 
always  a  neat  little  place,  and  passing  it  came  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill  from  which  we  looked  down  on  the 
house  of  Tre  Madoc,  nestling  amid  great  trees  in  its 
south-land  valley,  with  the  clear  stream  falling  in  a 


214  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

cascade  at  the  upper  end  and  rushing  down  to  the 
sea,  she  was  quite  another  woman. 

"  Is  this  not  beautiful,  Jeanne  ?"  said  my 
mother,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears  as  she  gazed  on 
the  old  home,  unseen  for  so  many  years. 

"It  is,  madame  ;  I  won't  deny  it,  though  the 
house  is  nothing  in  grandeur  to  the  Tour  d'Antin. 
And  the  cottages  do  look  snug  and  comfortable  • 
but  after  all  it  is  not  France  !" 

"  No,  it  is  not  France  :  don't  you  wish  it  were  ?" 
said  I.  "  How  nice  it  would  be  to  see  a  party  of 
dragoons  coming  after  us  over  the  hill,  and  to  be 
afraid  to  pass  yonder  tumbling  old  cross  lest  some 
one  should  see  that  we  did  not  bow  to  it  !" 

I  am  conscious  that  I  spoke  these  words  all  the 
more  sharply  because  I  was  myself  dreadfully 
homesick — not  for  France  so  much  as  for  London, 
with  which  I  had  fallen  in  love,  though  I  had  begun 
by  disliking  it  so  much.  I  had  had  a  taste  of  that 
gay  life  of  which  I  had  so  often  dreamed,  and  I 
found  the  cup  too  sweet  to  wish  to  have  that  taste 
the  only  one. 

My  mother  looked  at  me  in  surprise,  but  she  had 
no  time  to  speak  the  reproof  which  her  eyes  uttered. 
It  seemed  that  we  were  expected  and  watched  for. 
"We  saw  a  little  lad,  who  had  been  sitting  with  his 
dog  and  clapper  watching  the  birds,  leave  his  occu- 
pation and  ran  down  toward  the  house,  and  pres- 
ently an  elderly  lady,  surrounded  by  three  or  four 
young  ones,  came  out  upon  the  porch. 

"  There  are  my  mother  and  sisters,"  said  An- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          2 1 5 

drew;  "and,"  he  added  to  me,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  your  mother,  too,  Vevette  !  I  hope  you  will 
love  her." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall,"  I  tried  to  answer  graciously, 
though  I  felt  inwardly  vexed.  I  always  was  pro- 
voked when  Andrew  said  any  such  thing  implying 
a  kind  of  property  in  me.  I  felt  an  unaccountable 
shyness  of  these  new  relatives,  such  as  I  had  not 
been  conscious  of  either  in  Jersey  or  London,  and  I 
wished  the  meeting  with  them  could  be  postponed. 
But  our  tired  beasts  now  put  themselves  into  brisk 
motion,  rejoicing,  poor  creatures,  in  the  thought  of 
rest  and  food.  We  descended  the  hill,  passed 
through  a  short  avenue  of  nut-trees,  and  came  out 
before  the  same  porch,  overgrown  with  ivy  and  a 
great  Virginia  vine,  as  we  used  to  call  it,  and  found 
ourselves  in  presence  of  our  friends.  Andrew 
sprang  from  his  horse  and  assisted  my  mother  and 
myself  to  dismount.  The  older  lady  clasped  my 
mother  in  her  arms.  "Dearest  sister  Margaret, " 
said  she,  kissing  her  on  both  cheeks,  "  welcome 
home  !  It  is  a  happy  day  that  sees  you  enter  your 
father's  house  once  more.  And  this  is  my  new 
daughter.  Heaven  bless  you,  my  love  !  I  have  a 
flock  of  maidens,  as  you  see,  but  there  is  plenty  of 
room  for  one  more.  And  who  are  these  ?"  turn- 
ing to  Simon  and  Jeanne,  who  had  also  dismounted 
and  stood  modestly  in  the  background. 

My  mother  explained  matters,  and  our  poor  friends 
were  welcomed  in  their  turn  and  committed  to  the 
care  of  a  very  nice  old  woman,  to  be  made  comfort- 


216  T.  he  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

able,  while  one  of  half  a  dozen  old  bine-coated  serv 
ing-men  led  away  our  horses  and  attended  to  our 
luggage.  Then  we  were  conveyed  into  a  parlor,  a 
large  low  room  wainscoted  with  cedar  and  hung 
with  handsome  though  faded  needlework.  Here  we 
were  relieved  of  our  riding  gear  and  presented  to 
our  other  cousins,  of  whom  I  was  too  tired  and 
confused  to  see  aught  but  that  Betty  was  small  and 
dark,  Margaret  tall  and  fair,  and  Rosamond  very 
much  like  somebody  I  had  known,  I  could  not  say 
whom. 

"  But  you  are  both  tired  with  your  long  journey,  I 
am  sure,"  said  my  aunt,  after  the  first  greetings  had 
been  exchanged.  "  Rosamond  and  Betty  shall  show 
you  your  lodgings,  and  when  you  have  refreshed 
yourselves  we  will  meet  at  supper.  I  have  given 
you  the  gilded  room,  Margaret,  and  to  Agnes — or 
do  you  call  her  Genevieve  ? — the  little  chamber  over 
the  porch  beside  it.  I  might  have  given  you  a 
more  sumptuous  apartment,  my  dear,"  she  added, 
turning  to  me  ;  "  though  indeed  we  are  but  plain 
country  folks  at  best ;  but  the  porch  room  hath  a 
pleasant  lookout,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  to 
be  near  your  mother." 

I  murmured  something,  I  hardly  knew  what,  and 
my  mother  answered  for  me.  "  Yevette  is  not  used 
to  luxury,  my  dear  sister,  and  the  porch  room  is 
good  enough  for  any  young  maid.  May  I  ask  you 
to  send  Jeanne  to  me  ?  She  will  feel  herself  very 
strange,  I  fear." 

"She  shall  attend  you  directly,"  answered  my 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  217 

aunt ;  "  and  glad  I  am  that  two  such  confessors  for 
the  faith  should  find  a  shelter  under  this  roof." 

"  Take  heed  to  the  steps,"  said  Rosamond,  as  we 
came  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase  :  "  they  are  some- 
what slippery." 

That  they  were,  being  of  dark  oak,  and  polished 
like  glass  with  age  and  much  scrubbing.  However, 
I  was  used  to  polished  floors,  and  so  did  not  get  a 
fall.  We  traversed  a  long  gallery  hung  with  pic- 
tures, and  came  to  my  mother's  room,  which  was 
large  and  low.  Above  the  wainscot  the  walls  were 
covered  with  old-fashioned  stamped  and  gilded 
leather,  such  as  one  seldom  sees  now.  The  bed 
was  of  needlework,  with  wondrous  white  and  fine 
linen — a  matter  in  which  we  Corbets  have  always 
been  particular.  There  was  a  small  Turkey  carpet 
on  the  floor,  and  quite  a  fine  Venice  glass,  with 
branches,  handsomer  than  that  in  my  aunt's  dressing- 
room  in  London.  I  thought  the  room  as  pretty  as 
any  one  I  had  ever  seen.  Indeed,  the  whole  house 
was  finished  with  a  richness  uncommon  in  remote 
country  houses  at  that  day,  for  the  men  of  the 
family,  taking  naturally  to  a  seafaring  life,  had 
brought  home  from  abroad  many  articles  of  luxury 
and  beauty. 

My  own  room  was  by  far  the  prettiest  I  had 
ever  inhabited,  even  at  my  aunt's  house  in  London. 
It  was  partly  over  the  porch,  as  my  aunt  had  said, 
and  had  a  kind  of  projecting  window  which  com- 
manded a  lovely  view  of  the  sea  and  the  shore. 
The  bed  was  small  and  hung  with  white,  and  there 


218  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

was  a  queer  old  cabinet  or  chest  of  drawers,  which 
reminded  me  at  once  of  Jeanne's  cherished  bakut, 
which  she  often  sighed  over. 

"  That  cabinet  came  from  the  south  of  France, 
they  say,"  said  Rosamond,  seeing  my  eyes  fixed 
npon  it.  ' '  My  grandf atlier  brought  it  home  for  a 
present  to  his  wife." 

"  There  she  goes,"  said  Betty,  laughing.  "  Rosa- 
mond knows  the  history  of  every  old  piece  of  fur- 
niture and  tapestry  and  every  old  picture  and  sam- 
pler in  the  old  house,  and  will  retail  them  to  you 
by  the  hour,  if  you  care  to  listen  to  her.  They  are 
all  precious  relics  in  her  eyes." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  care,"  said  I,  seeing  that 
Rosamond  looked  a  little  dashed.  "  I  love  things 
that  have  histories,  and  that  old  cabinet  is  so  like 
one  that  my  poor  foster-mother  used  to  have  that  I 
fell  in  love  with  it  in  a  moment ;  I  think  Rosamond 
and  I  will  agree  finely." 

It  was  now  Betty's  turn  to  look  a  little  vexed, 
but  her  face  cleared  up  directly. 

"  You  will  have  abundance  of  entertainment, 
thent  for  the  house  is  a  museum  of  old  furniture 
and  oddities.  But  this  old  tabernacle  is  a  con 
venient  affair.  Here  are  empty  drawers,  as  you  see, 
and  a  place  to  write,  and  in  this  large  drawer  you 
will  find  clean  towels  and  napkins  as  you  want 
them.  Come,  Rosamond,  let  us  leave  Agnes  to 
dress  herself.  I  am  sure  she  must  feel  the  need  of 
it." 

I  did  indeed  need  such  a  refreshment,  after  mv 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          219 

long  ride.  My  mail  was  already  in  the  room,  and 
it  was  with  considerable  satisfaction  that  I  arrayed 
myself  in  one  of  the  new  frocks  which  had  been 
made  for  me  in  London,  and  which,  as  I  could  not 
but  be  aware,  set  off  to  considerable  advantage  my 
slender,  erect  figure.  Then,  very  well  satisfied  with 
myself,  I  went  into  my  mother's  room,  where  1 
found  Jeanne,  much  refreshed  in  mind  and  body, 
and  disposed  to  regard  her  new  home  with  more 
favorable  eyes.  My  mother  was  already  dressed, 
and,  seated  in  a  great  chair  covered  with  needlework 
flowers  in  faded  silks,  was  directing  Jeanne  in  the 
unpacking  of  her  mail  and  the  disposition  of  her 
clothes. 

"  You  look  well,  my  child,"  said  she,  holding  out 
her  hand  to  me.  "  Have  riot  the  lines  fallen  to  us 
in  pleasant  places  ?  Even  Jeanne  admits  that  the 
Cornish  folk  are  Christian  people,  since,  though  they 
cannot  speak  French,  they  know  how  to  make 
cider." 

"  And  very  good  cider  too,  madame,"  answered 
Jeanne  ;  "  and  though  I  think  them  not  very  polite 
to  smile  at  the  English  which  I  learned  so  well  to 
speak  in  London,  yet  one  must  not  expect  too  much 
of  them,  living  as  they  do  at  the  very  world's  end. 
Why,  they  tell  me,  at  least  that  old  sailor  did,  there 
is  absolutely  no  land  between  the  shore  yonder  and 
that  savage  country  of  America.  Do  you  think 
that  can  be  true,  madame  ?  It  makes  one  almost 
afraid." 

"  It  is  quite  true,  m^r  Jeanne  ;  but  I  see  no  cause 


220  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

for  fear,"  answered  my  mother,  smiling.  "  Some 
of  our  own  people  have  settled  in  America,  and  are 
prospering  well.  We  have  even  relatives  abiding 
there.  My  husband  and  I  have  sometimes  talked 
of  the  possibility  of  going  thither  ourselves.  Is  not 
this  a  pretty  place,  iny  Yevette  ?" 

44  Yes.  inaman,  very  pretty,  only — "  and  here 
I  stopped,  for  something  choked  me,  and  I  felt  a 
great  disposition  to  cry. 

"  Only  it  is  all  strange  and  new,  and  my  little 
one  is  overwrought,"'  said  my  mother,  kissing  me. 
u  I  forget  it  is  not  a  home-coming  to  you  as  to  me. 
Yet  I  hope  you  will  try  to  be  happy  here,"  she 
added,  regarding  me  wistfully. 

"  Indeed  I  will,  dear  maman,"  I  answered,  mak- 
ing a  great  effort  to  control  myself,  and  succeeding 
pretty  well.  "  I  think  the  house  is  beautiful, 
especially  this  room  and  my  own  ;  and  only  think, 
Mother  Jeanne,  there  is  a  bahut  almost  like  yours, 
and  my  cousin  Rosamond  says  it  came  from  the 
south  of  France.  Perhaps  it  was  made  by  the  same 
man." 

"  That  could  hardly  be,  mamselle,  for  my  great- 
grandfather made  mine.  He  was  a  skilful  man,  I 
have  heard  say,  and  made  many  beautiful  pieces  for 
great  houses. ' ' 

"  Then  why  not  this  one  ?  Go  and  look  at  it," 
said  I.  Jeanne  obeyed,  and  soon  came  back  in  great 
excitement. 

"  It  was — it  really  was  made  by  my  great-grand- 
father, madame  !"  she  cried.  "  There  are  the  two 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          221 

doves  pecketting  on  the  top  just  the  same,  and  the 
very  sign — the  olive-leaf  marked  with  a  circle — 
which  he  used  to  put  on  all  his  work.  Is  it  not 
wonderful,  madame  ?  Is  it  not  a  good  omen  ?" 
And  again  she  went  back  to  examine  the  cabinet, 
and  I  followed  her,  listening  with  interest  while  she 
pointed  out  the  maker's  sign  carved  here  and  there 
upon  the  doors  and  drawers,  and  the  peculiar  beauty 
of  the  steel  hinges  and  locks. 

This  little  incident  diverted  my  mind  and  put 
me  into  better  spirits,  and  when  Rosamond  came  to 
call  us  to  supper  I  was  ready  to  meet  her  with  a 
smile.  The  meal  was  served  in  another  room  from 
that  we  had  seen  before — a  high-arched  room  with 
a  gallery  crossing  one  end,  which  was  situated — so 
Rosamond  told  me — in  the  older  part  of  the  house, 
and  was  formerly  the  great  hall.  The  meal  was  well 
served,  and  seemed  wonderfully  abundant,  though 
1  was  growing  accustomed  to  English  profusion  in 
the  matter  of  eating  and  drinking.  I  could  not  but 
admire  the  white,  glossy  sheen  of  the  damask  cloth 
and  napkins,  and  the  beautiful  china  dishes,  more 
beautiful  than  any  I  had  ever  seen.  China  col- 
lecting was  a  great  passion  then,  and  my  aunt  in 
London  would  have  given  one  of  her  little  pink  ears 
for  the  curious  standard  dish  full  of  early  strawber- 
ries which  adorned  the  supper-table,  or  the  tall  jug 
crowned  with  frothy  whipped  cream  beside  it. 

We  young  ones  were  more  or  less  silent,  of  course, 
while  my  mother  and  my  Aunt  Amy  talked  about 
old  times,  and  who  was  dead,  and  whose  son  had 


222  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

married  which  one's  daughter,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  chat  which  goes  on  when  old  neighbors  come  to- 
gether. My  dear  mother  was — no  disparagement 
to  her  either — a  bit  of  a  gossip  ;  though,  as  we  had 
few  friends  among  our  French  neighbors,  she  had 
had  little  opportunity  of  indulging  her  tastes  ;  but 
now  she  grew  more  animated  and  interested  than  I 
had  ever  seen  her,  in  hearing  all  the  news  my  Aunt 
Amy  had  to  tell. 

"And  what  about  our  cousins  at  Stantoun  ?" 
asked  my  mother  presently.  "  From  what  Andrew 
tells  me,  I  suppose  the  present  lady  is  not  much 
like  the  one  I  knew." 

"No  more  than  chalk  is  like  cream-cheese," 
answered  Aunt  Amy.  "  Yet  she  is  a  good  lady, 
too,  and  a  kind  stepmother  to  the  lad  who  is  left, 
though  she  had  two  daughters  of  her  own  when  she 
married  my  lord." 

"  And  what  like  are  they  ?" 

"  Nay,  that  you  must  ask  Andrew.  He  has  seen 
more  of  them  than  I  have." 

"  Theo  is  well  enough,"  said  Andrew.  "She  is 
a  merry  girl,  who  cares  not  much  for  anything  but 
pleasure  and  finery,  but  she  is  good-natured  at  least. 
Martha  is  a  girl  of  another  stamp.  I  pity  the  man 
who  marries  her.  She  hath  far  more  mind  than 
Theo,  but  such  a  temper  !  Disagree  with  her  ever 
so  little — do  but  dare  to  like  what  she  hates  or  know 
something  she  does  not — and  she  is  your  enemy  for 
life." 

"  Gently,  gently,  my  son,"  said  his  mother,  with 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter.  223 

a  little  laugh.  "  What  hath  poor  Martha  done  to 
you  ?" 

"  Nothing  tome,  mother,  but  1  have  seen  enough 
of  her  doings  to  others.  I  believe  there  is  but  one 
person  in  the  world  she  stands  in  awe  of — her 
mother — and  but  one  she  loves — her  half-brother, 
the  young  lord.  1  uo  think  she  cares  for  him." 

"Ah,  well  !"  said  my  aunt  easily,  u  if  she  has 
such  a  temper  it  brings  its  own  punishment." 

"  And  the  punishment  of  a  good  many  others 
also,  unluckily,"  said  Andrew,  and  then  the  con- 
versation turned  to  other  things. 

After  supper  Andrew  proposed  that  we  should 
go  up  and  see  the  gardens.  The  elders  preferred 
sitting  in  the  house,  but  we  young  ones  went  out, 
after  proper  injunctions  to  keep  moving  and  not 
to  stay  out  after  the  dew  began  to  fall.  Garden- 
ing, it  appeared,  had  also  been  a  fashion  with  these 
curious  Corbets,  who  seem  to  me  from  the  earliest 
records  to  have  made  their  homes  as  pleasant  as  pos- 
sible, only  to  run  as  far  away  from  them  as  the 
limits  of  the  world  would  allow.  The  flower-beds 
were  in  their  spring  beauty,  and  were  filled  with 
rare  plants  and  flowers,  which  I  never  saw  anywhere 
else.  The  climate  of  Cornwall  is  very  mild,  so  that 
the  myrtle  grows  to  a  great  size  out  of  doors,  and 
many  tender  trees  flourish  which  will  not  live  at  all 
about  London.  I  particularly  admired  a  tall  shrub 
with  red-veined  leaves  and  covered  with  little  scarlet 
bells  in  immense  profusion,  and  asked  its  name. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  that,"  said  Andrew.     "My 


224  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

father  brought  it  from  the  "West  Indies,  where  it 
grows  very  large.  This  other  bush,  with  bright  scar- 
let flowers  and  broad  leaves,  is  from  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  but  it  will  bear  no  frost,  so  we  take  it 
in  in  the  winter." 

"  What  great  rosemary  and  lavender  plants  !" 
said  I.  "  They  make  me  think  of  what  Jeanne  has 
told  me  about  Provence,  where  they  grow  wild. ' ' 

"  They  do  fairly  well,  though  the  place  is  damp 
for  them.  See,  yonder  is  a  tulip-tree.  Is  it  not  a 
grand  one  ?  The  Americans  make  great  use  of  the 
wood,  which,  though  soft,  is  very  lasting  for  some 
purposes.1' 

"  What  a  pity  to  cut  down  such  beautiful  trees  !" 
said  I.  Andrew  laughed. 

"  Trees  are  the  great  enemies  over  there,"  said 
he.  "  It  did  look  terribly  wasteful  to  me  to  see 
great  logs  of  hard  maple,  chestnut,  and  oak,  rolled 
into  heaps  and  burned  in  the  field,  just  to  get  rid  of 
them." 

"  What  a  shame  !"  said  Betty.  "  Why  not  at 
least  give  them  to  the  poor  for  fuel.  Goody  Pena- 
luna  would  be  glad  enough  of  such  a  log." 

"If  Goody  Penaluna  were  there  she  would  have 
wood  enough  for  the  asking,"  replied  Andrew. 
' '  One  can  hardly  say  there  are  any  poor,  for  though 
they  have  often  had  hard  times  enough,  yet  it 
mostly  comes  share  and  share  alike." 

"  1  believe  Andrew  hath  a  hankering  after  those 
same  colonies  in  his  secret  soul,"  said  Betty. 


The  Chevalier s  Daiighter.          225 

"  You  will  find  yourself  transplanted  thither  some 
time  or  other,  Agnes." 

Again  I  felt  annoyed.     I  did  not  know  why. 

"  Do  not  call  me  Agnes  ;  call  me  Vevette,"  said 
I.  "  That  is  the  name  I  have  always  been  used  to. " 

"  But  Agnes  is  so  much  prettier.  Vevette  is 
like  a  nickname, ' '  objected  Betty. 

"It  is  a  sort  of  pet  name,  I  suppose — short  for 
Genevieve,"  remarked  Margaret.  "If  Vevette 
likes  it  best,  she  certainly  has  a  right  to  choose." 

"  But  it  is  French,"  objected  Betty  again,  "  and 
she  is  an  English  girl  now.  I  am  quite  sure  mother 
would  prefer  to  have  her  called  Agnes,  and  Andrew 
too  ;  wouldn't  you,  Andrew  ?" 

"  I  should  prefer  that  she  should  have  her  own 
way  in  the  matter,"  answered  Andrew  shortly,  and 
there  the  discussion  ended  for  the  time  ;  but  we 
were  no  sooner  in  the  house  than  Betty  began  it 
again,  appealing  to  her  mother  to  say  if  it  would 
not  be  much  better  for  me  to  be  called  by  my  Eng- 
lish name  now  1  was  come  to  live  in  England. 

"  That  is  for  her  mother  to  say,"  replied  Aunt 
Amy.  "  I  presume  she  will  prefer  to  call  her  by 
tLe  name  she  has  been  used  to." 

"  1  certainly  shall  prefer  to  do  so,  and  to  have 
others  do  so,"  said  my  mother.  "  The  name  of 
Agnes  was  never  a  favorite  of  mine." 

Betty  said  no  more,  but  she  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity of  calling  me  Agnes,  till  I  took  to  calling  her 
Elizabeth,  to  which  name  she  had  a  special  aver- 
sion. 


226  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

The  next  morning  and  for  many  succeeding  days 
my  mother  was  very  unwell,  and  I  naturally  spent 
most  of  my  time  with  her  in  her  apartment,  which 
was  at  some  little  distance  from  the  rest  of  the 
house.  Jeanne  attended  on  her,  and  Simon  worked 
in  the  garden,  taking  great  pleasure  in  the  variety 
of  plants  and  flowers  he  found  there.  He  got  on 
very  well  with  his  fellow-servants,  being  of  a  quiet 
and  sober  disposition.  He  did  not  at  all  disturb 
himself  when  laughed  at  for  his  mistakes  in  English, 
but  only  laughed  back,  or  contented  himself  with 
quietly  correcting  his  mistake.  But  Jeanne's 
southern  blood  was  more  easily  stirred,  and  she 
more  than  once  came  to  my  mother  declaring  that  she 
could  endure  her  life  no  longer.  Betty  used  to  take 
pleasure  in  teasing  her,  as  indeed  she  did  every  one 
who  came  within  her  reach,  except  her  mother  and 
Andrew,  of  whom  she  stood  in  awe.  She  and  1 
had  more  than  one  encounter,  in  which  1  can  safely 
say  that  she  met  her  match,  and  she  did  not  like  me 
the  better  for  it  ;  but  Rosamond  was  her  especial 
butt,  and  she  made  the  poor  girl's  life  miserable. 
Rosamond  was  of  a  studious  turn  of  mind,  and 
loved  nothing  so  much  as  to  get  away  by  herself, 
with  a  great  chronicle,  or  with  her  French  or  Latin 
books.  It  was  a  somewhat  uncommon  disposition 
at  that  time,  when  the  education  of  women  was 
much  neglected,  even  more  than  it  is  now.  But 
the  Corbets  have  always  been  rather  a  bookish  race, 
and  Rosamond  was  a  true  Corbet  in  all  things.  She 
loved  acquiring  new  icleas^  above  any  other  pleasure 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          227 

in  the  world.  She  made  Simon  tell  her  all  about 
Normandy  and  Brittany,  and  there  were  several  old 
sailors  in  the  village  to  whose  tales  of  foreign  parts 
she  was  delighted  to  listen  for  hours,  albeit  I  fear 
they  were  sometimes  more  romantic  than  reliable. 
Aunt  Amy  never  interfered  with  this  taste  of  Rosa- 
mond's, but  allowed  her  to  read  as  much  as  she 
pleased,  though  she  never  cared  to  open  a  book  her- 
self. Margaret  was  Rosamond's  champion  in  all 
things,  though  she  thought  so  much  reading  a 
waste  of  time  ;  but  Betty  was  always  tormenting 
the  poor  girl,  hiding  her  books,  destroying  her  col- 
lections of  dried  plants  and  shells,  and  laughing  at 
and  exaggerating  the  mistakes  which  she  now  and 
then  made  in  her  preoccupation.  I  must  say  that 
in  general  Rosamond  bore  all  with  the  utmost  sweet- 
ness, but  now  and  then  she  would  fly  into  a  passion. 
Then  Betty  would  provoke  her  more  and  more  till 
she  succeeded  in  driving  Rosamond  into  a  burst  of 
passionate  crying,  which  generally  ended  in  a  fit  of 
the  mother,  which  brought  my  aunt  on  the  scene. 
Then  Betty  would  be  all  sweetness  and  soothing 
attentions  to  the  sufferer,  bringing  everything  she 
could  think  of  to  relieve  her,  and  affecting  to  pity 
and  pet  her  till,  if  it  had  been  me,  I  am  sure  I 
should  have  boxed  her  ears.  Aunt  Amy  never  saw 
through  these  manoeuvres,  but  when  Rosamond  re- 
covered she  would  talk  to  her  seriously  about  the 
necessity  of  governing  her  temper,  and  Rosamond 
would  listen  humbly  and  meekly  promise  to  try  and 
do  better.  There  was  always  more  real  worth  in  her 


228  The  Chevalier  Daughter  s. 

little  finger  than  there  was  inBetty's  whole  person, 
but  her  timidity  and  absent-minded  ways  often 
made  her  appear  at  a  disadvantage.  She  and  my 
mother  were  soon  great  friends,  and  she  used  to 
bring  her  precious  books  to  our  apartment,  where 
Betty  dared  not  intrude.  Here  she  would  read 
aloud  to  us  for  hours,  or  practise  her  French  and 
Italian  with  maman  and  myself.  She  spoke  them 
both  horribly,  but  was  very  desirous  to  improve, 
and  made  great  progress.  Margaret  also  joined  in 
the  French  lessons,  but  she  had  a  great  many  other 
things  on  her  hands.  She  took  a  good  deal  of 
the  care  of  housekeeping  off  her  mother.  She 
visited  the  poor  in  the  village,  and  worked  for 
them,  and  she  had  taken  upon  herself  a  kind  of 
supervision  of  the  dame  school,  which  furnished  all 
the  education  for  the  village  of  Tre  Madoc.  Old 
Dame  Penberthy,  who  taught  or  rather  kept  it,  had 
not  been  a  very  good  scholar  in  her  best  days,  I 
imagine,  and  she  was  now  old  and  half  blind.  The 
little  children  were  sent  to  her  to  be  kept  out  of 
mischief,  and  taken  away  as  soon  as  they  were  fit 
for  any  sort  of  work.  Some  of  the  brightest  of 
them  learned  enough  to  pick  out,  with  much  stam- 
mering, a  chapter  in  the  Testament,  and  these  were 
the  dame's  best  scholars,  whom  she  exhibited  with 
great  pride.  Margaret,  however,  had  lately  taken 
the  school  in  hand,  moved  thereto  by  something 
she  had  read,  and  also  by  Andrew's  wish  for  a  bet- 
ter state  of  things.  He  had  seen  in  the  American 
colonies  day-schools  established  for  all  sorts  of  chil- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          229 

dren,  and  he  wished  for  something  of  the  same  sort 
at  Tre  Madoc.  So  Margaret  had  persuaded  the 
dame  to  take  home  an  orphan  grandneice,  a  clever 
girl  who  had  lived  a  while  at  the  court,  and  the  old 
woman  easily  fell  into  the  way  of  letting  this  girl, 
Peggy  Mellish  byname,  have  most  of  the  charge  of 
the  school.  Margaret  herself  went  every  other  day, 
to  inspect  the  sewing  and  spinning,  and  to  hear  the 
children  say  their  horn-book  and  teach  them  their 
Belief  and  Commandments.*  By  and  by  she  would 
have  rue  join  her  in  this  work.  I  was  fond  of  walk- 
ing and  of  children  ;  iny  mother  and  Andrew 
favored  the  plan,  and  so  I  took  hold  of  it  with  great 
zeal,  and  after  a  few  visits  along  with  Margaret  to 
learn  her  ways,  I  even  took  charge  of  the  school  on 
alternate  days,  and  soon  knew  as  much  about  the 
families  of  the  children,  their  wants  and  ways,  as 
Margaret  herself.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Betty 
was  in  a  manner  left  out  in  the  cold.  It  was  her 
own  fault,  1  must  needs  say,  for  she  laughed  equally 
at  Meg's  and  my  teaching  and  Rosamond's  learn- 
ing ;  but  she  was  not  any  more  pleased  for  that ;  and 
so,  partly  from  idleness,  partly  for  revenge,  she  sc  t 
herself  to  make  mischief  between  Andrew  and 
me.  But  I  must  put  off  the  relation  to  another 
chapter. 

*  A  horn-book  was  a  printed  sheet'  containing  the  alphabet 
and  some  other  lessons,  protected  from  moist  little  fingers  by  a 
sheet  of  transparent  horn. 


CHAPTER   Xll. 

MISCHIEF. 

HAVE  said  that  my  mother  was  very  un- 
well for  a  time  after  her  arrival  at  Tre 
Madoc,  and  my  aunt  feared  she  would  go 
off  in  a  quick  decline  ;  but  by  degrees  she 
recovered  strength  again,  so  as  to  walk  into  the  garden 
to  help  my  aunt  in  the  still-room  and  dairy  occupa- 
tions, of  which  she  was  very  fond,  and  after  a  while 
to  ride'  the  easy  old  pony  as  far  as  the  village,  to  see 
some  of  the  sick  and  old  people.  An  accident  had 
happened  to  .Andrew's  ship,  the  Enterprise,  which 
had  put  off  her  sailing  for  some  weeks.  We  were 
all  very  glad  of  the  respite,  my  mother  especially, 
to  whom  Andrew  was  most  devoted — more  so  than 
to  myself,  which  was  very  sensible  of  him.  He 
used  to  walk  at  her  bridle-rein,  gather  flowers  for 
her,  and  in  short  pay  her  a  great  many  attentions 
which  were  more  lover-like  than  filial.  He  had 
never  again  spoken  to  rne  on  the  subject  of  mar- 
riage, and  always  sharply  hushed  up  any  allusion  to 
the  matter  on  the  part  of  other  members  of  the 
family  ;  and  though  he  was  very  kind  and  very 


Tkc  Chevaliers  Daughter.          231 

attentive  to  my  comfort,  it  was  more  as  a  brother 
than  a  lover.  It  was  the  course,  if  lie  had  known 
it,  just  calculated  to  make  me  care  for  him,  if  only 
out  of  pique,  and  accordingly  I  began  to  watch  for 
his  coming,  to  wonder  whether  he  would  ask  me 
to  walk  with  him,  and  to  dress  so  as  to  please  his 
eye.  I  began  to  take  an  interest  in  the  farm  and 
garden,  as  indeed  I  had  been  used  to  do  at  home, 
and  I  was  more  than  ever  zealous  in  visiting  and 
working  for  the  school  and  the  poor  folks.  My 
aunt  had  taken  to  me  at  once,  and  I  to  her,  and  I 
believe  but  for  the  meddling  of  another  we  should 
never  have  had  a  falling  out.  My  charitable  work 
and  my  studies  with  Rosamond  and  my  mother  had 
again  brought  my  better  self  uppermost,  and  despite 
Betty's  teasing  and  an  occasional  sigh  for  London, 
or  a  spasm  of  home-sickness  for  dear  Normandy,  I 
was  very  happy. 

I  have  said  that  Betty  set  herself  to  make  mis- 
chief, and  she  succeeded  certainly  to  her  heart's 
content,  or  one  would  have  thought  so.  She  is 
gone  to  her  account  long  ago,  poor  thing,  and  I  feel 
tenderly  toward  her  memory,  for  she  was  my  An- 
drew's sister  ;  but  I  cannot  make  my  story  under- 
stood without  speaking  of  her  faults. 

She  began  with  Jeanne.  The  housekeeper  and 
chief  personage  under  Margaret  was  an  old  woman 
named  Deborah  Permuen.  an  excellent  person,  but 
of  somewhat  irritable  temper,  and  very  jealous  of 
her  authority  and  her  influence  with  her  mistress. 
She  and  Jeanne  had  begun  by  being  great  friends  ; 


232  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

for  Deborah  was  a  hot  Protestant,  and  a  Presby- 
terian to  boot,  who,  though  she  regularly  attended 
the  parish  church  on  Sundays,  as  regularly  went  on 
Thursdays  to  a  gathering  of  her  own  sort  of  folks, 
which  was  held  in  a  cottage  on  the  verge  of  the 
estate.  She  even  condescended  to  learn  of  Jeanne 
how  to  prepare  an  "  omelette  aux  herbs''  and  several 
other  French  dishes,  imparting  in  return  various  im- 
portant culinary  secrets  of  her  own. 

By  degrees,  however,  her  friendship  cooled.  She 
began  to  throw  out  hints  about  interlopers,  and 
French  Jesuits  in  disguise  coming  to  interfere  in 
peaceable  families.  She  declined  anything  but  civ- 
illy a  proposition  of  Jeanne's  to  teach  her  the  true 
way  of  making  a  galette  ;  and  at  last — the  crowning 
offence — threw  into  the  pig's  mess  a  fine  salad 
with  crawfish,  which  Jeanne  had  prepared  for 
Andrew's  birfhday,  declaring  that  she  would  not 
have  her  young  master  poisoned  with  French  pig- 
wash. Jeanne  rushed  to  rny  mother  with  com- 
plaints, not  observing  or  not  heeding  that  my  aunt 
was  in  the  next  room  looking  over  a  drawer  of  linen 
in  the  cabinet.  Then  Deborah  was  called  upon  the 
scene,  and  told  her  story,  which  she  did  with  many 
tears  and  exclamations  that  ever  she  should  have 
lived  to  see  the  day  that  she  should  be  supplanted 
by  a  foreigner,  and  so  on. 

"You  foolish  old  woman,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 
said  my  aunt,  out  of  patience  at  last.  "  Who  is 
thinking  of  supplanting  you  ?" 

"  Why,  that    French    woman    there  ?"    sobbed 


The  Chevalier's  Daiighter.  233 

Deborah,  pointing  to  Jeanne,  who,  burning  with  in- 
dignation all  the  more  because  my  mother  had  im- 
posed silence  on  her,  stood  behind  her  mistress' 
chair.  ' '  Did  not  she  say  that  she  would  have  me 
out  of  this  house  in  a  twelvemonth,  and  that  when 
her  young  lady  ruled  the  roast  in  the  parlor  it 
would  be  her  turn  in  the  kitchen  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  she  said  so,"  said  my  mother  ; 
and  she  translated  Deborah's  remark  for  Jeanne's 
benefit. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  madame,  I  never  said  such  a 
word,"  was  Jeanne's  reply.  "  I  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  I  had  too  much  respect  for  Deborah, 
let  alone  Madame  Corbet,  ever  to  say  a  thing  so  im- 
polite, so  improper." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  Mrs.  Betty  then,  when  she 
asked  you  about  it?"  demanded  Deborah,  begin- 
ning to  calm  down  a  little. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  was  the  answer.  "  Mrs.  Betty 
said  to  me  that  she  supposed  I  should  be  the — what 
say  you  ? — the  manager,  when  Mrs.  Yevette  and  the 
young  master  were  married,  and  that  she  hoped  I 
would  give  them  more  nice  things  than  Mrs.  Deborah 
did  ;  to  which  I  answered  nothing  ;  for  it  did  not 
seem  to  me,  craving  madame's  pardon,  that  it  was  a 
proper  way  for  a  young  lady  of  the  house  to  speak  to 
a  servant.  So,  when  she  added  something  more,  I 
said  I  was  Madame  d' An  tin's  servant,  and  at  her 
disposal ;  and  I  added  no  more.  My  feelings  have 
been  much  hurt  by  Mrs.  Deborah's  remarks  of  late; 
and  to-day  especially  I  was  so  moved  by  her  treat- 


2^4  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

nicnt  of  my  salad — ah,  madam c  !  sucli  noble  salade 
des  ecrevisses  ! — that  I  fear  I  forgot  myself.  Alas,  it 
is  too  easy  to  wound  the  heart  of  an  exile  and  a 
childless  mother. "  And  here  Jeanne  wept  in  her 
turn,  and  Deborah  began  to  look  rather  ashamed, 
and  to  mutter  some  thing  about  ' '  not  meaning. ' ' 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  my  aunt,  who  with  all 
her  easiness  of  disposition  was  not  a  person  to  be 
despised  ;  "  Deborah  has  allowed  herself  to  be  prej- 
udiced, and  to  believe  her  mistress  capable  of  the 
most  unworthy  conduct." 

"  Oh,  mistress,  don't !"  implored  Deborah,  weep- 
ing afresh. 

"  And  she  has  been  guilty  of  great  unkindness 
toward  a  stranger  and  a  foreigner,  and  one  of  her 
own  religion,"  added  my  aunt,  with  emphasis; 
"  while  Jeanne  has  perhaps  been  too  hasty  and 
ready  to  take  offence." 

"  I  own  it,  madame,"  sobbed  Jeanne  in  her 
turn  ;  "  I  have  been  too  hasty  ;  but  to  be  called  a 
Jesuit,  when  I  have  suffered  so  much  by  them  ;  and 
theft  my  beautiful  salad,  which  the  young  master 
used  to  like  so  much  in  France — " 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  am 
sure  Deborah  is  sorry  she  called  you  by  such  an 
ugly  name  ;  and  as  to  the  salad,  I  think  if  we  can 
forgive  the  loss,  you  can.  Come,  now,  let  me  see 
you  shake  hands  and  make  friends,  like  Christian 
women  ;  and  let  me  hear  of  no  more  quarrels." 

The  two  combatants  obeyed,  with  a  very  decent 
grace  on  Deborah's  side,  and  with  considerable 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          235 

effusion  on  that  of  Jeanne,  who  adored  my  aunt,  and, 
to  do  her  justice,  was  always  placable.  Deborah 
departed  to  her  own  dominions,  and  my  aunt,  going 
to  her  own  room,  sent  for  Mrs.  Betty,  who  did  not 
appear  at  dinner,  and  who  was  at  least  more  careful 
in  her  conduct  for  some  days,  though  I  have  reason 
to  think  her  heart  was  little  affected  by  her  disgrace 
or  her  mother's  admonitions.  It  was  only  a  few 
days  afterward  that  Jeanne  came  to  her  mistress 
again,  with  a  humble  request  that  she  would  inter- 
cede with  Madame  Corbet  to  allow  her  to  change 
her  room.  For  since  my  mother  had  been  so  un- 
well Jeanne  had  occupied  a  room  at  the  end  of  the 
gallery  leading  to  our  apartment,  which,  as  I  liave 
said,  was  somewhat  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
house. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  room?'' 
asked  my  mother  ;  "  I  thought  it  a  very  nice  one/' 

"  And  so  it  is  madame,  but — 

"But  what?" 

"  I  would  rather  not  sleep  there,  rnadame." 

"  Some  one  has  been  telling  you  ghost  stories," 
said  I,  a  sudden  idea  coming  to  me.  "  Is  it  not 
so?" 

"  Ah,  maniselle  !"  and  Jeanne  began  to  cry,  as 
usual. 

"  Do  be  reasonable,"  said  my  mother,  rather 
impatiently,  for  she  was  tired  and  not  very  well. 
"  Stop  crying,  aud  tull  me  what  has  scared  you." 

It  was  not  easy  to  pacify  Jeanne,  but  we  succeeded 
;it  last,  and  then  the  truth  came  out.  Mrs.  Betty 


236  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

had  told  her  that  a  headless  woman  with  fiery  eyes 
came  out  of  a  secret  closet  in  the  hall  of  that  room, 
which  no  one  had  been  able  to  find,  and  that  who- 
ever saw  her  became  blind. 

"  Where  does  she  keep  her  fiery  eyes,  if  she  has 
no  head — in  her  pocket  ?"  I  asked,  laughing  at  this 
very  original  ghost.  "  Perhaps  she  carries  them 
on  a  dish  before  her,  like  St.  What's-her-name  in 
the  picture." 

"  Ah,  mamselle  !  do  not  laugh.  I  did  indeed  see 
something — two  fiery  eyes  in  the  dark — and  my 
eyes  have  not  felt  right  since." 

"  The  eyes  of  that  great  gray  cat  which  is  always 
following  you  up-stairs  and  down,"  said  my  mother. 
Then,  seeing  that  the  poor  woman  was  really  un- 
happy, she  tried  to  reason  her  out  of  her  fears  on 
religious  grounds,  but,  as  usually  happens  in  such 
cases,  without  much  success.  Jeanne  owned  the 
truth  of  all  she  said  ;  but —  Finally  my  mother  gave 
way,  and  asked  my  aunt  to  allow  a  cot-bed  to  be  put 
into  the  large  light  closet  which  opened  from  my 
mother's  room. 

"  Why,  certainly,  if  you  like  to  have  her  there," 
said  my  aunt.  "  You  know  I  thought  it  would  be 
more  convenient  for  you,  in  the  first  place." 

"It  is  not  that  exactly,"  replied  my  mother  ; 
"  but  Jeanne  lias  taken  a  fit  of  superstitious  terror 
and  is  afraid  of,  I  know  not  what  apparition,  which 
some  one  has  told  her  comes  out  of  a  closet  in  the 
wall  of  her  room.  I  have  reasoned  with  her,  but^ 
of  course,  to  no  purpose. 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          237 

"  Is  there  really  such  a  ghost  about  the  house, 
aunt?"  I  asked. 

"  There  used  to  be  an  old  story  to  \Aai  effect," 
said  my  aunt  ;  "  but  I  do  not  know  that  any  one  has 
ever  seen  the  apparition.  Cornwall  i»  famous  for 
such  things.  You  shall  hardly  find  an  old  hall  or 
mansion  in  the  country  which  lias  not  its  tale  of 
wonder." 

"  I  think  there  is  more  of  it  than  the.e  used  to 
be  in  Normandy  even,"  I  remarked.  "  Old  Dame 
Trehorn  was  quite  in  despair  about  her  sons  yester- 
day, because  she  says  she  heard  the  old  shoes  dance 
of  themselves  in  the  press  the  night  before  last,  and 
she  is  sure  their  owners  either  are  or  will  be 
drowned.  And  Mary  Hellish  would  not  let  the 
children  come  to  school  yesterday  because  some  one 
heard  the  wish-hounds  the  night  before." 

"  It  is  a  pity  the  poor  people  would  -not  learn  to 
have  more  faith  in  God  and  less  fear  of  apparitions 
and  the  like,"  said  my  mother. 

My  aunt  looked  a  little  displeased.  "  I  suppose, 
sister  Meg,  you  will  hardly  go  so  far  as  to  say  there 
are  no  such  things  as  ghosts  and  fairies  and  the 
like,"  said  she.  "  That  would  indeed  be  to  be 
wiser  than  our  fathers. ' ' 

"  But,  Aunt  Amy,  we  are  wiser  than  our  fathers 
in  a  great  many  things,  or  think  we  are,"  said  I. 
"  Our  fathers  used  to  believe  in  purgatory,  and 
worshipping  of  images  and  the  like,  but  we  do 
not." 

My  aunt  deigned  me  no  answer. 


258  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter, 

"As  to  Jeanne,  sister,  you  will  of  course  do  as 
you  please,  since  she  is  your  woman,  and  the  apart- 
ment is  yours.  I  would,  however,  that  you  would 
try  to  teach  her  to  live  on  better  terms  with  Deborah 
:;nd  the  other  woman.  I  am  not  used  to  these 
quarrels  below  stairs." 

I  would  have  spoken,  for  I  felt  very  warm  in 
defense  of  my  foster-mother,  but  maman  checked  me 
with  a  look,  and  said  gently  that  she  hoped  not  to 
need  Jeanne  much  longer,  and  after  that  she  would 
of  course  lodge  with  her  husband  at  his  cottage. 

*'  Why,  there  it  is,"  said  my  aunt.  "  As  soon  as 
one  speaks  a  word,  you  take  offence.  And  now  that 
we  are  on  the  subject"  (she  did  not  say  what  sub- 
ject), "  I  must  say  that  I  cannot  think  it  becomes 
Yevette  to  remark  upon  my  housekeeping  before 
the  maids.  She  is  not  yet  mistress,  however  she 
may  come  to  be,  and  I  think  young  maids  had  best 
learn  in  silence  and  not  pass  their  judgment  on  what 
is  done  by  their  elders.  Our  Catechism  teaches 
young  folks.to  order  themselves  lowly  and  reverently 
to  their  betters,  whatever  yours  may  do  in  France." 
And  here  my  aunt  stopped,  having  talked  herself 
quite  out  of  breath. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  aunt  ?"  I  asked,  quite  be- 
wildered by  this  accusation.  "  When  have  1 
censured  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  very  well  what  1  mean,  I  am 
quite  sure.  It  might  be  only  thoughtlessness,  but 
you  ought  to  be  more  careful/' 


The  Ckevaliers  Datig  liter.  239 

"  But,  aunt,  indeed  I  do  not  know  ;  I  Lave  not 
die  least  idea,"  said  I,  whicli  was  quite  true. 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind,  sister  Corbet,  as  to  tell  my 
child  and  her  mother  to  what  your  allude  ?"  saul 
my  mother,  with  all  that  stateliiiess  which  was  nat- 
ural  to  her.,  but  speaking  kindly.  "  I  assure  you 
that  if  my  daughter  hath  done  wrong,  either  wil- 
fully or  carelessly,  she  shall  ask  your  pardon." 

Aunt  Amy  had  had  time  to  cool.  "  Ah,  well,  I 
dare  say  it  was  but  thoughtlessness  ;  and  young 
maids  must  be  young  maids,  I  suppose. ' ' 

"  But  what  was  it  ?"  my  mother  persisted,  to  my 
secret  delight,  for  I  was  not  conscious  of  any  offence. 

Aunt  Amy  could  not  remember  the  words  ;  only 
Betty  had  told  her  that  I  had  found  fault  with  the 
housekeeping,  and  said  that  when  I  was  mistress  I 
would  have  things  thus  and  so.  I  began  to  see 
daylight. 

"  Dear  aunt,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was,"  said  I. 
"We  were  all  gathering  lavender-flowers  for  the 
still,  and  I  saw  that  Peggy,  the  still-room  maid,  had 
been  crying,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter.  She 
said  the  mistress  had  been  scolding  her  because  she 
had  on  ragged  stockings,  and  because  she  did  not 
keep  her  head  neat ;  and  Betty  asked  me  if  I  did  not 
think  that  was  hard  on  the  poor  girl,  when  she  had 
so  much  to  do.  And  1  said  no  :  if  I  were  her  mis- 
tress I  would  make  her  knit  her  own  hose  and  wear 
a  clear-starched  cap  every  day,  as  the  maids  do  in 
Normandy.  Then  Meg  laughed,  and  said  I  would 
be  a  pattern  housekeeper,  no  doubt  ;  and  I  said  I  did 


240  TJie  Chevalier  s  Daug liter. 

not  believe  I  should  ever  be  as  good-natured  as  you 
were.  That  was  the  whole  of  it.  I  am  sure 
nothing  was  farther  from  my  thoughts  than  any 
disrespect ;  and  as  to  your  housekeeping,  T  think  it 
is  as  perfect  as  can  be — only,  of  course,  many  of  the 
ways  are  different  from  ours,  and  when  I  notice 
them  'tis  natural  to  speak  of  them." 

"  Betty  made  much  more  of  the  matter  than 
that,"  said  my  aunt.  "  Well,  sister  Meg,  I  will 
have  a  cot-bed  sent  up,  and  you  can  place  it  where 
you  please.  I  am  sure  I  want  every  one  under  my 
roof  to  be  comfortable,  each  in  their  degree.  But 
another  thing  I  must  speak  of."  Aunt  Amy  was 
like  many  other  easy-going  folks  :  when  she  got 
started  she  never  knew  when  to  stop.  "  I  don't 
want  you,  Agnes — I  mean  Vevette,  or  whatever 
your  name  is — I  don't  want  you  turning  my  girls' 
heads  with  romances  and  plays  and  stories  of  Lon- 
don gayeties  and  London  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies. 
If  you  have  a  taste  for  such  matters,  it  is  a  pity  you 
had  not  stayed  with  your  uncle,  and  married  some 
fine  gentleman  about  the  court,  instead  of  poor  An- 
drew, whose  estate  will  stand  no  such  doings,  as  I 
warn  you  beforehand.  There,  I  want  no  answer  ; 
but  don't  do  it  again."  And  with  that  she  bustled 
away. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean  ?"  I  asked,  when  I  was 
left  alone  with  my  mother. 

"  It  means  what  I  might  have  considered  before 
we  came  here — that  no  one  house  was  ever  yet  large 
enough  for  two  families,"  said  my  mother.  "  But 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  241 

what  is  this  about  turning  heads  with  stories  about 
London  ?" 

"Why,  maman,  you  know  how  Rosamond  is — 
how  she  is  always  longing  to  hear  about  places  one 
has  seen.  The  night  before  last  I  said  I  had  told 
her  everytliing  I  could  think  of  about  La  Manche 
and  Jersey,  and  I  should  have  to  begin  upon  Lon- 
don. So  I  told  her  of  the  parks  and  the  palace  and 
other  places  where  I  went  with  my  uncle  and  aunt 
and  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pepys.  Then  Betty  began 
asking  me  whether  my  uncle  and  aunt  did  not  see  a 
deal  of  gay  company,  and  so  I  told  her  something 
about  that,  and  about  the  dresses  in  the  park,  and  so 
on.  Rosamond  did  not  care  to  hear,  and  went  away 
to  her  book,  but  Betty  kept  me  telling  a  long 
time.  And  last  night  she  asked  me  about  it  again, 
and  whether  I  would  'not  have  liked  to  live  with 
my  aunt  Jemima  in  London." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?"  asked  my  mother. 

"  I  said,  l  Not  to  leave  you  ; '  and  besides,  since  I 
had  come  down  here  and  learned  to  know  the  peo- 
ple, I  liked  the  place  ;  and  so  I  do.  Only  I  shall 
not  like  it,  I  am  sure,  if  my  aunt  turns  against  me.'' 

"  Let  us  hope  she  will  not,"  said  my  mother. 
"  Sister  Amy  is  a  good  creature,  but  she  has  an 
oddity  of  disposition  which  belongs  to  her  family. 
She  will  let  herself  be  prejudiced  against  her  best 
friend  by  any  mischief-maker  who  will  take  the 
pains  to  do  it.  Her  sister,  who  was  my  great  friend 
when  we  were  young,  was  just  so.  She  made  a 
hasty  marriage,  against  the  wishes  of  her  father  and 


242  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

of  her  husband's  family,  and  though  they  forgave 
her  afterward,  she  was  for  some  time  in  a  good  deal 
of  trouble.  I  stood  by  her  through  all,  yet  she  let 
herself  be  altoge'ther  set  against  me  by  some  of  her 
husband's  relations,  who  had  themselves  said  the 
most  shameful  things  about  her,  even  affecting  her 
reputation  as  a  virtuous  woman." 

"  She  must  have  been  very  silly,"  said  I. 

"  In  that  respect  she  certainly  was.  But,  my 
Yevette,  let  me  hear  no  more  of  these  talks  with 
Betty  about  London.  They  are  not  very  good  for 
yourself,  who  tave,  I  fear,  now  and  then  a  longing 
back-look  to  the  courts  of  Egypt,  and  I  doubt  their 
being  good  for  Betty  herself.  You  had  best  avoid 
her  company,  so  far  as  you  can  without  offence,  and 
above  all  do  not  have  any  confidences  with  her. 
Margaret  and  Rosamond  are  as  open  as  the  day,  but 
unless  I  much  misread  poor  Betty,  she  is  a  born 
mischief-maker. " 

Here  the  conversation  ended.  That  evening 
Betty  began  again  to  ask  me  about  London>  having 
drawn  me  away  from  the  rest  of  the  young  folks 
who  were  assembled  on  the  green  ;  but  I  gave  her 
short  answers,  and  at  last  plainly  told  her  that  1 
could  say  no  more  about  the  matter. 

"But  why  not?"  asked  Betty.  "You  talked 
long  enough  about  it  last  night." 

"  Yes,  and  you  went  and  told  your  mother,  and 
she  lectured  me  this  morning  about  turning  your 
)iead  with  stories  of  London  fine  gentlemen." 

Betty  assumed  an  air  of  innocent  surprise. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  243 

"  Did  you  not  want  me  to  tell,  then  ?"  said  she. 
"  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  have  no  secrets  from 
my  mother." 

I  was  too  angry  to  trust  myself  with  a  word,  and 
I  turned  back  to  where  the  rest  of  the  family  were 
standing,  looking  at  a  pair  of  hawks  which  Andrew 
had  taken  from  the  nest  and  trained  h  •  mself  ;  for, 
sailor  as  he  was,  he  was  very  fond  of  field  sports, 
specially  of  hawking.  I  placed  myself  at  his  side, 
and  began  admiring  and  petting  the  hawks,  which  I 
had  often  fed  till  they  were  fond  of  me.  Andrew 
looked  pleased. 

"I  shall  leave  them  in  your  care,"  said  he; 
"  only  old  Joslyns  must  take  them  out  now  and 
then  or  they  will  forget  how  to  £y." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  to  have  them,"  said  I. 
"  And,  Andrew,  will  you  get  me  a  new  hare's-foot 
for  Dame  Penaluna  ?  She  says  hers  does  no  good 
because  it  was  cut  off  below  the  first  joint." 

"  What  does  she  want  it  for — to  paint  her  face 
withal?"  asked  Andrew.  "  That  is  what  the  fine 
ladies  use  them  for,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  So  I  have  heard,"  I  answered,  laughing  ;  "  but 
the  dame  wants  hers  as  a  spell  against  the  colic." 

"  She  shall  have  it,"  said  Andrew,  and  again  ho 
looked  pleased,  as  he  always  did  when  I  made  any 
little  request,  which  was  not  often,  for  I  had  grown 
shy  of  him  of  late.  "  You  seem  to  be  in  the  confi- 
dence of  all  the  old  women  in  the  hamlet,  from 
what  I  hear.  What  do  you  do  to  make  them  like 
you  so  much  ?" 


244  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

"  I  don't  know,  unless  it  be  that  I  listen  to  their 
stories,"  I  answered.  "  I  think  old  folks  usually 
do  like  that.  They  like  to  tell,  and  I  like  to 
hearken,  so  we  are  both  suited." 

"  "Vevette  is  practising  her  part  beforehand," 
said  Betty,  who  had  followed  me  back  to  the  green. 
"  She  means  to  be  perfect  in  it  by  the  time  she 
comes  to  be  Lady  of  the  Manor.  My  mother  has 
never  had  time  to  do  so  much  listening." 

Andrew  shot  one  of  his  fiery  glances  at  his  sister, 
while  I  was  so  confused  and  so  angry  both  at  once 
that  I  could  not  say  a  word.  I  was  going  into  the 
house  when  he  called  me  and  asked  me  to  walk  with 
him  to  the  end  of  the  lane  and  look  out  upon  the 
sea.  Betty  said  she  would  go  too,  but  Margaret 
called  her  back  rather  sharply,  to  my  great  joy,  for 
I  hardly  felt  like  keeping  terms  with  her,  and  I  was 
determined  not  to  quarrel  if  I  could  help  it. 

"  You  must  not  mind  poor  Betty, "  said  Andrew. 
(Why  is  the  most  exasperating  member  of  a  family 
always  spoken  of  as  poor  so  and  so  ?)  "  She  has 
always  been  the  contrary  feather  in  the  family  nest, 
ever  since  she  was  born." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  mind  her,"  said  I,  "if  only 
she  would  not  make  mischief.  But  I  think  it  is 
too  bad  in  her  to  lead  me  on  to  tell  her  about  Lon- 
don and  my  uncle  and  aunt  there,  and  then  go  and 
tell  your  mother,  as  if  it  had  been  all  my  doing. 
And  then — but  there,  what  is  the  use  ?"  I  added. 
**  You  cannot  understand,  and  there  is  no  need  of 
troubling  you  with  the  matter.  Only  I  wish  we 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  245 

had  stayed  in  Jersey — that  is  all,"  I  concluded,  with 
a  quiver  in  my  voice.  Andrew  pressed  my  hand, 
and  we  were  silent  a  few  minutes.  Then  he  said, 
"  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,  Yevette." 

"I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  I,  as  indeed  I  was. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"You  are  a  famous  knitter,"  said  he.  ""Will 
you  knit  me  a  pair  of  long,  warm  woollen  hose  be- 
fore I  go?" 

"  Yes  indeed  ;  but  do  you  not  want  more  than 
one  pair  ?" 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you  would  have  time  for 
more  than  one." 

"  That  is  a  likely  story  !"  said  I.  "As  if  I  could 
not  knit  more  than  one  pair  of  hosen  in  four  weeks. 
I  will  begin  them  directly.  I  know  Jeanne  has 
been  spinning  some  famous  yarn." 

We  talked  a  little  longer  about  various  matters — 
about  the  places  where  Andrew  was  going,  and  the 
time  when  he  would  return — and  then  we  fell  into 
graver  talk,  and  from  that  again  to  jesting,  till  I 
had  quite  recovered  my  serenity. 

The  next  morning  was  my  turn  at  the  school,  and 
I  walked  thither  with  my  head  quite  full  of  schemes 
for  the  improvement  of  my  little  folk  which  1 
meant  to  talk  over  with  Andrew,  for  somehow  our 
walk  and  that  the  night  before  had  put  us  in  some 
degree  upon  our  old  brotherly  and  sisterly  footing 
again.  I  found  the  children  assembled  and  ready 
to  welcome  me,  and  we  had  a  prosperous  morning. 
When  I  came  out,  there  was  my  mother  on  her 


246  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

pony,  with  Andrew  at  her  bridle-rein  as  usual.  My 
little  regiment  sent  off  quite  &feu  dejoie,  as  I  may 
gay,  of  bobs  and  courtesies,  showing  their  black  curly 
heads  and  white  teeth  to  great  advantage  ;  for  they 
were,  almost  without  exception,  handsome.  Corn- 
wall was  and  is  a  country  of  handsome  folk,  and 
our  hamlet  is  no  exception  to  the  rule. 

"And  how  does  the  college  prosper?"  asked 
Andrew,  after  he  had  spoken  to  one  and  another  of 
the  young  ones,  and  had  acknowledged  the  salute 
of  Peggy  Hellish,  who  stood  smiling  and  courtesying 
in  her  clean  kirtle  and  apron,  quite  a  picture  of  a 
young  school-mistress. 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered  ;  "  only  just  now  we 
are  greatly  in  need  of  certain  articles  called  knitting- 
pins.  There  are  none  to  be  had,  it  seems,  nearer 
than  Plymouth,  if  indeed  they  are  to  be  found 
there.  I  want  to  teach  the  elder  girls  to  knit,  but 
I  cannot  if  I  have  no  pins." 

"  That  does  stand  to  reason,"  answered  Andrew 
gravely  ;  "  but  perhaps  the  blacksmith  could  make 
some  of  these  same  pins,  with  a  little  of  my  assist- 
ance. I  am  a  bit  of  a  smith  myself." 

"  So  you  ought  to  be.  The  knights  of  old  could 
forge  their  own  armor,  you  know.  But  I  think  you 
are  a  little  of  everything,"  said  I.  "If  ever  we 
should  be  cast  away  upon  a  desert  island,  like  the 
folks  you  read  of  yesterday,  you  could  set  up  house- 
keeping, and  make  yourself  a  great  king  among  the 
people." 

"  Jack  at  all  trades  and  master  at  none,"  said 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          247 

Andrew,  looking  pleased,  as  lie  always  did  when  I 
made  any  such  remark.  "  But  here  is  your  old 
dame's  hare's-foot.  It  has  the  needful  joint,  you 
see.  I  cut  it  off  myself ." 

11  Many  thanks.  I  will  carry  it  to  her  if  you  will 
wait  for  me." 

"  Nay,  we  will  all  go  that  way — that  is,  if  Andrew 
does  not  mind  the  walk,"  said  my  mother.  "I 
have  a  fancy  to  see  the  old  house  at  St.  Wenna's 
Well." 

"  The  walk  is  nothing,  so  the  ride  is  not  too  much 
for  you,"  answered  Andrew.  "  As  for  Yevette,  I 
know  she  minds  walking  no  more  than  the  old  pony 
here." 

"  Very  polite,  to  compare  me  to  a  pony,"  said 
I,  pretending  to  pout.  "  But  I  shall  like  to  see  the 
old  house.  Does  any  one  live  in  it  ?" 

"  Only  the  woman  who  cares  for  it ;  and  she  is 
worth  seeing  too,"  answered  Andrew.  "  Is  not 
this  the  old  dame's  cottage  ?" 

It  was,  and  the  dame  was  within,  groaning 
grievously  with  the  colic  ;  but  no  sooner  did  she 
take  the  hare's-foot  into  her  hand,  such  was  the  vir- 
tue of  the  remedy  or  the  effect  of  her  faith  in  it, 
than  she  was  presently  quite  easy. 

"  Do  you  suppose  it  really  helped  her  ?"  I  asked, 
when  we  were  again  on  our  way. 

"  Nay,  that  I  cannot  say,"  said  Andrew.  "  'Tis 
an  old  notion,  and  for  aught  I  know  may  have  some 
virtue  in  it.  At  all  events,  it  hath  this  advantage 


248  ?  he  Chevalier  s  Daughter* 

over  some  other  medicaments,  that  if  it  does  no 
good  it  can  do  no  harm." 

"  What  is  there  so  odd  about  the  housekeeper  at 
the  Well  House  ?"  I  asked,  when  we  had  gone  on 
a  little. 

"  You  will  easily  discover  that  when  you  see 
her,'  answered  Andrew.  "  But  aside  from  her 
person  there  is  something  peculiar  in  the  manner  of 
her  appearance  among  us.  She  was  found  when  a 
little  child,  wandering  upon  the  sea-shore  early  one 
morning  after  a  great  storm  of  thunder  and  wind. 
She  was  very  small,  but  from  her  ways  it  was 
judged  she  must  be  three  or  four  years  old,  for  she 
could  speak  plainly,  though  in  a  language  none  un- 
derstood. She  was  somewhat  richly  dressed,  and 
had  about  her  neck  a  thin  gold  .chain  and  the  image 
of  some  bird  wrought  in  the  same  metal.  The  folk 
thought  her  a  fairy  changeling  or  else  a  sea-maid, 
and  were  almost  afraid  of  her  ;  but  an  old  couple 
then  living  in  the  Well  House  took  her  in  and 
brought  her  up  as  their  own.  She  well  repaid 
their  care,  having  been  a  most  dutiful  daughter  to 
them.  AShe  hath  never  married,  and  now  that  the 
old  folks  are  dead  she  lives  in  the  Well  House,  to 
take  care  of  it.  She  is  an  odd  little  body,  but  very 
faithful  and  honest." 

We  had  by  this  time  come  in  sight  of  the  Well 
House,  as  it  was  called,  which  stood  in  its  own  little 
coombe  opening  dowii  to  the  sen  at  the  very  mouth 
of  Tre  Madoc  valley.  It  was  a  pretty  little  old  house, 
built  of  warm  red  stone  and  shadowed  by  a  great 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          249 

walnut-tree  and  an  ash.  At  a  little  distance,  and 
indeed  almost  joining  the  house,  was  a  very  tiny 
ruined  chapel  or  oratory,  such  as  one  often  sees  by 
the  roadside  in  France.  A  small  bright  stream  ran 
through  the  garden,  which  was  pretty  though  rather 
wild  and  overgrown.  I  took  a  fancy  to  the  place 
at  once. 

"It  hath  not  changed  in  the  least,"  said  my 
mother  ;  "  only  the  trees  are  grown  and  the  old 
chestnut  is  away.  What  hath  become  of  it  ?" 

"  It  blew  down  a  few  years  since  ,in  a  great 
storm,"  answered  Andrew.  "I  made  a  cabinet 
and  table  of  the  wood,  which  are  now  in  the 
house." 

Have  you  any  of  the  chestnuts  we  brought  from 
the  Tour  d'Antin  ?"  asked  my  mother,  turning 
to  me.  "  If  so,  you  might  plant  two  or  three  here." 

"  I  have  them,  but  I  fear  they  are  too  dry  to 
grow,"  said  I.  "  However,  it  can  do  no  harm  to 
try." 

(Two  of  them  did  grow,  and  are  now  fine  bearing 
trees.) 

"  See,  there  is  the  holy  well,  under  the  arch 
yonder,"  said  my  mother.  "  I  wonder  do  the  vil- 
lage maids  come  on  St.  John's  even  to  drop  needles 
into  it  that  they  may  dream  of  their  sweethearts  ?' ' 

"  Yes  indeed  ;  and  the  water  is  still  sought  for 
baptisms,  under  the  notion  that  no  person  christened 
with  that  water  will  ever  be  hanged,"  said  Andrew. 
"  See,  Yevette,  there  is  my  fairy  housekeeper." 

A  fairy  indeed  she  looked.     I  never  saw  so  small 


250  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

a  person  not  to  be  a  dwarf,  yet  she  was  perfectly 
well  proportioned  and  very  upright.  Her  hair,  a 
little  touched  with  silver,  was  black  as  a  crow's  wing, 
and  her  eyebrows  the  same.  On  the  whole  she  was 
a  very  handsome  little  creature,  yet  there  was  some- 
thing about  her  so  different  from  the  country  people 
among  whom  she  lived  that  I  did  not  wonder  to 
hear  that  they  regarded  her  as  something  not  quite 
human.  She  made  us  welcome  M'ilh  great  polite- 
ness, and  I  could  but  notice  how  well  she  spoke 
English.  Andrew  explained  our  errand. 

"  We  shall  give  you  some  trouble,  I  fear,"  said 
my  mother. 

"  Not  at  all,  madame.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me, 
and  you  are  come  in  good  time,  for  I  have  just  been 
opening  and  airing  the  house."  And  indeed  we 
had  observed  the  open  windows  as  we  came  up. 

"  We  will  not  trouble  you  to  go  with  us,"  said 
Andrew.  "  My  aunt  knows  the  house  of  old." 

She  courtesied  and  withdrew  to  her  own  special 
domain,  and  we  went  through  all  the  rooms,  which 
were  in  the  best  order,  and  certainly  did  credit  to 
the  sea-dame's  housekeeping,  being  as  dry  and  airy 
as  if  used  all  the  time.  In  two  or  three  of  the 
rooms  fires  were  burning  on  the  hearth,  and  there 
was  a  peculiar  air  of  cheerfulness  about  the  whole 
place.  1  remarked  this  to  Andrew. 

"  It  does  not  seem  at  all  like  a  deserted  house," 
said  I.  "  One  would  say  these  rooms  were  used  to 
pleasant  company." 

"  The  village  folks  would  tell  you  that  Dinah 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          251 

entertains  her  friends  from  the  sea  in  these  apart- 
ments," said  Andrew,  smiling.  "  They  tell  stories 
of  seeing  the  house  lighted  up  and  hea,ring  music  at 
night.  I  determined  to  look  into  the  thing,  think- 
ing possibly  that  the  place  might  be  the  haunt  of 
smugglers  ;  but  I  found  the  lights  came  from  the 
fires  Dinah  had  lighted  to  expel  the  damp,  and  the 
music  was  the  old  harpsichon,  on  which  she  had 
taught  herself  to  play,  by  the  help  of  some  music- 
books  she  had  found." 

"  Then  she  can  read,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  write  as  well.  The  people  who 
took  her  in  were  of  the  better  class.  They  were 
not  Cornish  folk,  but  East  Country  English,  who 
came  and  settled  here  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the 
First.  No  one  knew  much  about  them,  and  I  fancy 
they  might  have  had  their  own  reasons  for  keeping 
quiet,  but  my  father  never  would  allow  them  to  be 
molested.  See,  here  is  the  cabinet  I  made  from  the 
old  chestnut-tree." 

"  So  you  are  a  cabinet-maker  as  well,"  said  I. 
"  Another  qualification  for  our  desert  island." 

"  That  same  desert  island  seems  to  take  your 
fancy,"  said  Andrew,  smiling.  "  Perchance  if  you 
tried  it,  as  I  have  done,  you  would  not  find  it  so 
pleasant." 

"  Were  you  really  east  away  ?"  I  asked  curiously. 
"When  and  where?" 

' '  About  ten  years  ago,  on  one  of  the  most  lovely 
little  islets  of  the  "West  Indies.  It  was  like  a  bit 
out  of  paradise.  We  had  landed  for  water,  but  a 


252  7^ke  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

squall  came  up,  and  bj  some  blunder  I  was  left  be- 
hind. I  stayed  there  a  week,  and  most  thankful 
was  I  to  see  the  face  of  man  once  more.  But  here 
we  are  in  the  parlor  again,  and  I  see  Dinah  has 
prepared  quite  a  feast  for  us." 

She  had  indeed  spread  an  elegant  little  repast  of 
bread,  cream,  and  honey,  with  fruit  from  the  gar- 
den. Of  course  we  did  not  decline  it,  my  mother 
eating  to  please  the  good  woman,  and  Andrew  and 
I  because  we  were  hungry. 

"  What  an  odd  name  she  has  !"  said  I. 

"  She  called  herself  Diane  when  she  was  found, 
and  for  a  long  time  would  answer  to  no  other,  but 
at  last  her  foster-parents  took  to  calling  her  Dinah, 
with  which  she  was  content.  Well,  aunt,  how  do 
you  like  the  house,  now  you  have  seen  it  ?' ' 

"  So  well  that  I  am  minded  to  find  you  a  chap- 
man," said  my  mother,  smiling.  "  What  say  you  ? 
Will  you  sell  the  Well  House  to  Vevette  and  my- 
self ?  I  wish  to  buy  a  home,  and  would  rather  have 
this  than  any  other." 

Andrew  opened  his  eyes  wide,  as  he  was  wont 
to  do  when  puzzled. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  aunt  ?  Are  you  in  earnest  ? 
And  why  would  you  leave  the  hall  ?  Hath  any  one 
in  the  family  been  unkind  or  uncivil  to  you  ?" 

"  Here  is  a  fine  mouthful  of  questions  all  in  a 
breath,"  said  my  mother.  u  I  will  answer  them 
all  in  turn.  I  am  quite  in  earnest,  and  mean  what  I 
say.  I  would  have  the  hall,  because  I  think  it  will 
be  better  and  more  convenient  for  me  to  have  my 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          253 

own  household,  and  let  your  mother  have  hers. 
Xo  one  has  been  uncivil  to  me.  I  have  had  no 
quarrel  with  any  one,  and  I  mean  to  have  none. 
But  I  never  saw  any  house  that  was  large  enough 
for  two  families,  and  I  do  not  believe  Tre  Madoa 
Court  is  any  exception  to  the  rule." 

My  mother  went  on  to  explain  her  reasons  more 
at  length  than  I  shall  do  here.  Andrew  listened 
unwillingly  at  first,  but  at  last  he  owned  that  there 
was  right  sense  in  what  she  said,  and  consented  to 
consider  of  the  matter. 

"  And  what  will  Ye-vette  say  ?"  he  asked,  for  I 
had  not  spoken  a  word. 

"  I  like  it  well,"  I  answered.  "  'Tis  not  so  far 
but  I  can  go  up  to  the  school.  Rosamond  can  come 
down  here  with  her  books,  and  Meg  with  her  knit- 
ting, and  I  dare  say  even  you  can  make  it  conven- 
ient to  stop  sometimes  when  you  come  from  your 
fishing. ' ' 

lie  shook  his  head  at  me.  "  Well,  well,  we  will 
consider  of  it,"  said  he.  "  In  truth,  madame,  you 
have  a  right  to  the  tenancy  of  the  house  if  you 
choose  to  live  in  it.  I  doubt  not  you  will  find  it 
comfortable  enough,  and  should  anything  be  want- 
ing I  will  see  that  it  is  supplied.  There  is  a  good 
garden,  a  small  orchard,  and  land  enough  for  two 
cows,  if  you  choose  to  keep  them.  I  think  Dinah 
has  one  at  present.  But  what  to  do  with  her  ! 
She  looks  upon  this  house  as  her  home,  though  of 
course  she  hath  no  right  here  but  on  sufferance." 

''  Let  her  remain,  if  she  will  take   the   post  of 


254  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

waiting  gentlewoman,"  said  my  mother.  "  I  shall 
want  some  such  person,  and  our  good  Jeanne  is 
hardly  fitted  for  such  a  service.  I  like  the  woman's 
appearance.  There  is  something  about  her  which 
reminds  me  of  home.  Indeed,  I  think  she  is  more 
French  than  English  in  her  looks." 

""Well,  well,  we  will  consider  of  it,"  said 
Andrew  again.  ' '  Have  you  said  aught  to  my 
mother?" 

"  No,  I  wished  first  to  see  the  house." 

The  project  was  broached  to  my  aunt  that  even- 
ing. I  was  not  present,  but  my  mother  told  me 
that  though  Aunt  Amy  said  many  kind  things  and 
made  many  hospitable  objections,  it  was  plain  that 
she  was  not  sorry  to  consent.  So  the  next  day  it 
was  all  settled,  and  we  began  to  make  our  arrange- 
ments. Rosamond  was  struck  with  consternation 
on  hearing  of  it,  and  could  not  be  reconciled  till 
my  mother  reminded  her  that  she  could  come  over 
twice  or  tlirice  a  week  to  her  Italian  and  French 
lessons. 

"  But  you  won't  give  up  the  school,  will  you, 
Yevette  ?"  said  Meg.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do  without  your  help  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  can  walk  from  the  "Well  House  as 
well  as  from  here. ' ' 

"  But  the  way  is  very  lonely,  and  you  must  pass 
the  Pisky  Bank  going  and  coming,"  said  Mar- 
garet. "  Won't  you  be  afraid  ?" 

"No,  I    don't  believe    I    shall."   said   I.     "I 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter.          255 

have  never  disobliged  the  pixies,  and  I  don't  see 
why  they  should  disoblige  me." 

"  But  there  is  the  place  where  the  smuggler  was 
killed,"  objected  Rosamond. 

"  Well,  if  he  is  killed  he  can  do  no  harm.  1 
should  not  like  to  meet  a  live  smuggler,  but  I  don't 
see  how  one  who  was  killed  forty  years  ago  can  hurt 
me." 

"  Yevette  does  not  believe  in  ghosts,"  said  Betty. 

"  I  would  not  say  that  exactly,"  I  returned. 
"  There  are  many  such  stories  which  seem  to  rest 
on  good  proof.  But  I  think  we  of  the  reformed 
faith  in  France  do  not  fear  such  things  as  much  as 
people  do  here.  Our  preachers  teach  us  that  over- 
much terror  of  ghosts  and  the  like  argues  some- 
what of  a  distrust  in  the  care  of  our  Heavenly 
Father.  I  have  been  in  many  very  ghostly  places, 
and  at  ghostly  hours  too,  as  Andrew  knows,  but  I 
never  saw  anj^hing  more  alarming  than  owls,  bats, 
and  spiders.  We  had  a  ghost  in  the  chateau,  but 
I  was  not  nearly  so  much  afraid  of  the  white  chev- 
alier as  I  was  of  the  village  priest." 

"  Well,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  above  all  human 
weakness  myself, ' '  said  Betty. 

' '  That  is  a  good  thing,  my  dear,  for  no  one  would 
believe  you  if  you  did,"  interrupted  Andrew. 

"  You  are  very  civil,  to  take  the  words  out  of 
my  mouth,"  returned  Betty.  "  I  suppose  that  is 
French  politeness,  of  which  we  hear  so  much.  I 
mean  to  say  that  I  do  not  hold  myself  to  be  wiser 
than  all  my  elders,  and  than  the  rector  himself ,  who 


256  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

believes  in  ghosts,  and  is  very  powerful  in  laying 
them.  Why,  lie  is  sent  for  all  along  the  coast,  even 
to  the  Land's  End  and  clear  into  Devonshire,  for 
that  purpose." 

"  I  should  think  he  would  clear  his  own  parish, 
then,"  said  I,  rather  flippantly. 

"  But,  Yevette,  I  really  did  see  something  on  the 
path  to  the  Well  House  one  evening,"  said  Rosa- 
mond, who  had  not  yet  spoken.  "  It  was  only  last 
Tuesday.  I  had  been  down  to  the  shore  with  a 
basket  for  old  Madge,  and  was  coming  up  again, 
slowly,  when  just  at  the  turn  of  the  road  1  saw  a 
man  and  a  woman  walking  slowly  along.  The 
woman  had  a  veil  over  her  head  and  a  dark  gray 
gown  like  Betty's  homespun,  and  the  gentleman 
was  tall  and  slim  and  wore  a  gray  cloak.  I  \von- 
dered  who  they  could  be,  but  I  never  thought  of 
their  being  anything  uncommon  till  I  came  up  near 
them  ;  and  behold,  they  were  gone  like  a  flash  !" 

"  Perhaps  they  had  slipped  aside  into  the  bushes," 
said  I.  "  There  is  a  ruined  cottage  close  by  ;  per- 
haps they  went  into  that.  Did  you  look  to  see  ?" 

"  Look  into  Torclen's  cottage  !"  said  Rosamond, 
aghast  at  the  very  idea.  "  No  indeed  ;  I  ran  home 
as  fast  as  I  could." 

"  And  wisely  too,"  said  Andrew.  "But  what 
like  was  this  ghostly  gallant  ?" 

"  I  did  not  see  his  face,  but  he  was  tall  and  slim, 
with  a  fair  love-lock,  which  slipped  out  from  under 
his  cloak.  That  was  all  I  noticed,  but  somehow  he 
made  me  think  of  young  Mr.  Lovel." 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter.          257 

"  What  nonsense  is  this  !"  said  Betty  angrily. 
"  Rosamond  saw  one  of  the  village  maids  out  cour- 
seying  with  her  lad.  Every  one  knows  she  fears  her 
own  shadows." 

Betty  spoke  with  so  much  heat  that  we  all  looked 
at  her  in  surprise,  and  a  kind  of  undefined  suspi- 
cion darted  through  my  mind  and  was  forgotten  the 
next  minute. 

"  Well,  then,  if  I  am  afraid  I  will  set  up  a  rival 
cottage  down  at  the  shore,  and  so  put  Meg's  into  the 
shade,"  said  I,  laughing.  ';  There  are  old  Madge's 
grandchildren,  and  the  Polwhele  brood,  and  the 
Widow  Barker's  two  maids.  That  would  make  a 
very  decent  school." 

' '  Yes,  a  pretty  return  that  would  be  to  Meg  for 
letting  you  help  her,"  said  Betty,  who  was 
thoroughly  out  of  humor,  as  it  seemed.  "  I  ever 
thought  she  would  find  a  cuckoo  in  her  nest." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  it  would  be  a  capital  thing," 
said  Margaret.  "It  is  a  long  way  for  the  little 
children  to  come,  and  they  make  every  rain  an  ex- 
cuse for  staying  away.  I  should  hate  to  lose  her 
from  the  school  at  the  hamlet,  too." 

u  There  is  no  hurry,"  I  replied.  "  I  have  not 
yet  served  out  my  apprenticeship.  I  am  your 
scholar,  Meg,  as  much  as  little  Peggy  is  mine." 

"  Very  humble,  truly,"  said  Betty  sarcastically, 
arid  there  the  matter  ended. 

When  1  was  again  alone  Rosamond's  tale  and 
Betty's  discomposure  thereat  again  recurred  to  my 
mind,  and  I  wondered  what  interest  she  could  have 


258  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

in  the  matter.  But  I  finally  reflected  that  it  was 
one  of  her  bad  days,  when  she  was  wont  to  find  mat- 
ter for  annoyance  in  the  simplest  occurrence,  and 
dismissing  the  matter  from  my  mind  I  fell  to 
thinking  over  another,  much  more  important  to  me, 
namely,  whether  Andrew  meant  to  ask  me  once 
more  to  marry  him  before  he  set  sail,  and  if  so, 
what  I  should  say  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  BOOK. 

T  was  settled  that  we  were  to  remove  the 
next  week,  and  Jeanne  and  Simon  with 
us,  for  they  would  by  no  means  consent  to 
stay  behind.  Simon  was  to  have  charge  of 
the  out-of-door  matters,  the  cows  and  pony,  and 
Jeanne  of  the  dairy,  while  Dinah  was  to  fill  the  post 
of  housekeeper  and  waiting  gentlewoman,  with  the 
eldest  girl  in  the  village  school  for  a  maid  under  her. 
This  was  as  much  of  an  establishment  as  my  mother 
thought  prudent,  considering  our  means,  though 
Aunt  Amy  was  very  pressing  with  us  to  take 
another  maid  in  the  house.  She  was  very  kind,  and 
would  have  given  us  half  the  fine  linen  and 
blankets  at  the  Court,  and  enough  of  comfits,  wine, 
and  other  provisions  for  an  army  ;  and  she  was 
even  inclined  to  be  angry  with  my  mother  for  ac- 
cepting so  little.  However,  all  was  settled  amicably, 
and  seeing  how  obliging  she  was  I  ventured  to  pre- 
fer a  humble  request  that  she  would  lend  me  the 
old  French  cabinet  in  my  room — a  request  which 
she  granted  with  alacrity,  and  added  thereto  the 


260  The  Chevalier s  Daughter, 

gift  of  a  small  Persian  carpet  which  I  greatly  ad- 
mired. 

But  I  was  not  destined  to  leave  Tre  Madoc  Court 
without  a  more  serious  trouble,  which  trouble  could 
never  have  fallen  upon  me  but  for  my  own  want  of 
frankness,  and  that  double-niindedness  which  was 
always  my  bane.  I  mentioned  that  my  Aunt  Jem  had 
given  me  as  a  parting  present  a  book  of  plays  and 
poems,  and  that  I  had  never  showed  this  book  to 
my  mother.  In  truth,  my  first  concealment  had 
arisen  rather  from  timidity  and  embarrassment  than 
from  wilful  deception.  I  did  not  quite  know  what 
to  do  with  the  book,  not  liking  to  refuse  it  for  fear 
of  hurting  Aunt  Jem,  of  whom  I  was  very  fond, 
and  I  felt  quite  sure  maman  would  not  let  me  keep 
it  if  she  knew.  Of  course  the  straight  road 
would  have  been,  as  it  ever  is,  the  right  one,  but  I 
took  that  middle  way  of  compromise,  which  is 
never  the  right  one,  as  I  may  say,  and  put  the  book 
at  the  bottom  of  my  mail,  with  a  half  resolve  to 
show  it  to  my  mother  at  the  first  opportunity. 
But  in  truth,  in  the  surprise  and  joy  of  meeting 
Simon  and  Jeanne  and  the  e::  i-itenaent  of  travelling 
and  settling  in  our  new  home,  I  quite  forgot  it. 
"\Yhen  I  came  to  unpack  my  mail  I  found  it. 
Betty  was  in  the  room,  and  asked  what  it  was,  and 
I  told  her  its  history. 

"  Have  you  not  read  it  ?"  she  asked,  seizing  and 
opening  it.  "  It  looks  delightful." 

"  No,  I  have  not  read  it,  and  shah1  not  till  I 
show  it  to  maman,"  1  answered. 


The  Chevaliers  Daitghter.          261 

"  Then  let  me  have  it — do  !"  said  Betty,  turning 
it  over  with  eager  interest  ;  "  or  we  will  read  it 
together.  I  am  sure  Aunt  Jem  would  not  give  you 
a  wicked  book,  though  she  may  not  be  so  strait-laced 
as  my  Aunt  Margaret.  Come,  let  us  read  it  to- 
gether. Your  things  are  all  put  away,  and  my  aunt 
is  with  my  mother  in  the  still-room,  so  she  will  not 
want  you.  Let  us  sit  down  in  the  window  and 
read." 

"  I  did  not  know  Betty  as  well  then  as  I  came  to 
know  her  afterward,  and  I  really  had  some  curiosity 
about  the  book,  which  was  partly  writ  by  that  Mr. 
Dryden,  who  hath  since  made  a  great  noise  in  the 
world.  The  first  poem  was  certainly  very  beautiful, 
and  innocent  enough,  so  far  as  I  understood  it. 
The  next  was  a  play. 

"  Indeed  I  cannot  read  any  more,  Betty,"  said 
I  ;  "  and  you  ought  not  either,  till  you  ask  your 
mother." 

"  Well,  let  me  take  the  book,  then,"  said  Betty. 
"  I  will  not  hurt  it,  and  I  don't  believe  it  will  hurt 
me." 

I  refused  plumply,  but  at  that  moment  my  moth- 
er called  me  to  come  and  see  some  curious  china- 
ware  which  she  had  found  in  looking  over  the  house 
with  my  aunt.  "When  I  returned  Betty  had  taken 
away  the  book,  and  1  could  not  get  it  of  her  again, 
though  I  had  more  than  once  asked  her  for  it.  It 
was  now  returned  on  my  hands,  with  a  witness. 

A  day  before  we  left  the  Court  we  were  all  sitting 
in  the  cedar  parlor — that  is,  my  mother,  Meg,  Rosa- 


262  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

mond,  and  I — busy  in  finishing  a  certain  worked 
coverlet  which  my  aunt  had  had  in  hand  a  long 
time,  and  which  she  wished  to  give  my  mother  for 
a  parting  present.  Andrew  was  reading  to  us  out 
of  an  English  chronicle,  but  I  fear  we  young  ones 
cared  more  about  the  flowers  on  our  work  than 
about  the  wars  between  the  houses  of  York  and 
Lancaster.  I  can  see  at  this  moment  the  daisy  with 
pink  edges  and  a  yellow  centre  on  which  I  was  be- 
stowing all  my  skill,  when  we  were  all  startled  by  the 
entrance  of  Aunt  Amy,  evidently  in  a  high  state  of 
excitement.  I  thought  I  should  like  to  sink  into 
the  earth  when  I  saw  in  her  hand  that  identical  red 
leather  and  gilded  book  which  I  had  lent  Betty,  or 
rather  which  she  had  taken  for  herself. 

"  So,  sister  D'Antin  !"  said  my  aunt,  in  her  rare 
tone  of  excitement,  "  this  is  the  way  your  daughter 
rewards  my  hospitality — for  I  won't  say  you, 
though  I  must  say,  knowing  what  she  was,  I  think 
you  might  have  looked  out  for  her — bringing  her 
vile  and*  corrupting  books  into  a  decent  house,  and 
lending  them  to  my  innocent  maids.  This  is  what 
one  gets  for  one's  goodness  in  taking  in — " 

"  Mother!"  said  Andrew,  more  sternly  than  I 
ever  heard  him  speak  to  her  before  or  afterward. 

"  Oh,  you  may  say  inother  as  much  as  you 
please,  son  ;  but  I  wish  your  father  had  taken  my 
advice  and  looked  out  a  good  honest  Cornish  maid 
for  you,  instead  of  betrothing  you  to  a  French 
mademoiselle  whom  none  of  us  knew,  to  bring  her 
corruptions  in  here.  Just  look  at  this  book  which 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  263 

she  lent  Betty,  and  told  her  not  to  tell  her  mother, 
and  which  the  poor  child  just  now  came  and  brought 
me,  confessing  with  shame  and  tears  how  wicked 
she  had  been.  Just  look  at  it,  that  is  all  !"  and  she 
flung  it  on  the  ground  as  if  it  had  been  a  snake  or 
spider.  Andrew  took  it  up,  looked  at  one  or  two 
places,  and  then,  with  a  glance  I  shall  never  forget, 
he  gave  it  to  me.  My  mother  took  it  from  my  un- 
resisting hand. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Yevette  ?"  said  she. 
"  Where  did  this  book  come  from  ?" 

' '  My  Aunt  Jemima  gave  it  to  me, ' '  I  answered, 
hardly  able  to  speak. 

"  And  you  concealed  it  from  me  ?  Oh,  my 
daughter  !" 

"  Of  course  she  concealed  it,"  said  my  aunt  tri- 
umphantly. 

u  Let  Vevette  speak,  mother,  since  you  have 
chosen  to  make  this  matter  public,  in  what  I  must 
needs  call  an  ill-judged  manner,"  said  Andrew,  in 
that  calm  voice  of  authority  which  will  be  heard. 
"How  was  it,  Yevette?" 

I  tried  to  explain,  but  between  my  own  shame 
and  confusion  and  my  aunt's  interruptions  I  am 
conscious  that  1  made  but  a  lame  business  of  it.  I 
did  manage  to  say,  however,  that  though  I  sat  down 
and  read  the  first  poem  with  Betty,  I  had  refused 
to  read  any  more,  and  that  I  had  absolutely  refused 
to  lend  the  book  to  Betty,  who  had  taken  it  without 
leave. 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  about  that  !"  said  my  aunt. 


264  Xke  Chevalier  s  Daiigkter, 

"  Betty  told  me  herself,  poor  wretch,  that  you  told 
her  you  would  not  lend  it  to  her  ;  but  c;in  you  deny 
that  you  went  away  and  left  the  book  in  her  hands  ? 
Can  you  deny  that  you  were  angry  with  her,  and 
reproached  her  for  telling  me  of  your  private  cour- 
seying  about  London,  and  London  fine  gallants,  and 
other  things  that  young  maids  should  not  know, 
much  less  tell  on  ?  You  are  an  adder  and  a  viper 
—that  you  are  !  and  come  of  viper's  brood — nasty, 
frog-eating  French  !" 

My  mother  rose.  "  With  your  leave,  sister  Cor, 
bet,  we  will  "withdraw,"  said  she,  assuming  the 
chatelaine,  as  she  well  knew  how.  "  I  shall  not  jus- 
tify my  child  till  I  hear  from  her  all  the  circum- 
stances of  this  unlucky  affair.  Nephew  Andrew,  I 
will  thank  you  to  order  the  pony. " 

"  The  pony — and  for  what  ?"  asked  my  aunt, 
cooling  down,  as  she  always  did  when  my  mother 
took  this  tone. 

' '  That  I  may  withdraw  to  my  own  house,  since  I 
am  so  happy  as  to  have  one,"  replied  my  mother. 
"  When  this  matter  is  cleared  up,  sister  Corbet,  you 
shall  have  all  proper  explanations  and  apologies. 
In  the  mean  time  'tis  neither  for  your  dignity  or 
mine  that  I  should  remain  longer  under  a  roof  where 
such  language  has  been  applied  to  me  and  mine.  I 
thank  you  from  my  heart  for  your  hospitality,  but  1 
can  partake  of  it— no,  not  an  hour  longer." 

My  aunt,  upon  this,  began  to  cry,  and  to  retract 
what  she  had  said. 

"  I  did  not  mean  you,  sister  D'Autin — and  per- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  265 

haps  it  was  not  so  bad  ;  but  you  see  she  does  not 
deny  that  she  had  the  book,  and  that  Betty  got  it 
from  her — and  I  know  1  am  hasty  when  I  am 
roused ;  and  the  French  do  eat  frogs,  for  you  told 
me  yourself ;  and  you  said  they  were  good — you 
know  you  did,  sister  D'Antin.  And  Betty  is  art- 
ful, I  confess  ;  but  that  does  not  make  it  right  for 
Vevette  to  lend  her  bad  books,  nor  for  Andrew  to 
look  at  me  so,  as  if — and  I  am  sure  I  am  his  own 
natural  mother  and  not  a  stranger,  and  'tis  unknown 
the  trouble  I  had  in  rearing  him,  because  he  was  a 
May  babe,  and  my  mother  said  he  would  never  be 
lucky." 

"Mother  arid  my  aunt,"  said  Andrew,  in  his 
grave,  commanding  tones,  ' '  will  you  be  so  good  as 
to  let  this  matter  rest  for  to-night  ?  It  hath  been 
made  far  too  public  already.  Aunt,  if  I  have  ever 
done  you  any  service,  I  beseech  you  to  remain  under 
my  roof  till  to-morrow. "  (I  never  heard  Andrew 
say  my  roof  before.) 

"  Yes,  do,"  said  my  aunt,  who  had  cooled  rapidly, 
as  usual.  u  Indeed  I  regret  that  I  was  so  hasty  ; 
and  I  will  take  back  all  I  said  about  vipers  and 
adders." 

My  mother  suffered  herself  to  be  prevailed  upon 
so  far  as  to  say  she  would  remain  till  the  time 
originally  set  for  her  departure.  Then  she  with- 
drew to  her  room,  and  I  followed,  like  one  going  to 
execution.  Once  there  she  addressed  me  in  a  tone 
which  1  had  never  heard  from  her  but  once  before, 
requiring  me  to  give  her  a  full  account  of  this  trans- 


266  The  Chevalier  s-  Daitghter. 

action.  I  fell  down  on  my  knees  before  her,  and 
told  her  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to  end. 

"  How  shall  I  believe  you  ?  You  have  already 
deceived  me,"  said  she  sadly. 

"  Indeed,  maman,  I  have  now  told  you  the 
truth, ' '  said  I,  weeping.  ' '  I  only  read  the  first  poem 
in  the  book,  and  then  I  would  go  no  farther.  And 
I  did  not  lend  it  to  Betty.  She  took  it  from  the 
room  when  you  called  me  to  look  at  the  china,  and 
I  never  could  get  it  again,  though  I  asked  her  for  it 
ever  so  many  times.  Oh,  maman,  do  believe 
me  !" 

"  Vevette,"  said  she,  laying  her  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  and  looking  me  through  and  through  as  I 
knelt  before  her,  "  as  you  hope  ever  to  meet 
your  father  again,  tell  me  the  truth.  Have  you 
any  more  of  these  books  ?" 

"  No,  maman,  not  one." 

•*  Have  you  ever  had  any  of  them  since  I  forbade 
you  reading  them  ?" 

"  Yes,  maman,  I  had  two  or  three  that  my  Uncle 
Charles  sent  to  the  tower,  but  the  day  before  we 
went  to  the  Supper  in  the  old  grange  I  burned 
them,  every  one." 

"  And  you  have  not  read  the  rest  of  this  book  ?" 

"  No,  maman,  only  the  first  poem,  in  which  there 
was  no  harm.  Betty  wanted  to  read  on,  but  I 
would  not.  Oh,  maman,  do  forgive  me  !" 

"  I  forgive  you,  my  child,  but  you  have  grieved 
me  to  the  heart,"  said  my  mother.  "  Go  to  your 
i,  and  pray  for  forgiveness  and  cleansing.  Do 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter.  267 

not  leave  it  this  night.  By  and  by,  when  I  am 
rested,  we  will  talk  farther." 

I  retired  to  my  own  room,  feeling  as  miserable 
as  any  girl  of  my  age  ever  felt  in  the  world,  and 
that  is  saying  much,  for  the  capacities  of  such  girls 
for  misery  are  very  great.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
though  I  could  never  be  happy  again.  In  all  my 
little  difficulties  with  my  aunt  and  Betty  heretofore, 
Andrew  had  always  been  on  my  side  ;  but  now  he 
too  had  turned  against  me.  How  plainly  I  could 
see  the  look  he  gave  me  when  he  handed  me  that 
detestable  book — a  look  full  of  anger  and  grief.  I 
knew  that  he  hated  lying  above  all  things.  It  was 
the  only  sin  with  which  he  seemed  to  have  no  pa- 
tience. 1  had  not  told  a  lie  in  words,  to  be  sure,  but 
I  had  been  guilty  of  deception,  and  that  was  enough 
for  him.  Now  that  I  had  lost  him,  or  thought  I 
had,  I  felt  how  dear  he  was  to  me.  I  had  lost  his 
respect,  and  I  felt  sure  that  all  comfort  was  at  an 
end  between  us,  even  though  he  should  feel  bound 
to  fulfil  his  contract.  One  thing  I  made  up  my 
mind  to — I  would  never  be  his  wife  if  he  showed 
the  least  unwillingness  to  marry  me.  And  then  I 
remembered  how  pleased  he  had  been  when  I  spoke 
of  our  living  together  on  a  desert  island,  and  for  the 
first  time  I  burst  into  tears. 

I  wept  for  a  long  time,  thus  lightening  my  heart 
a  little,  and  then  taking  up  my  Bible  I  tried  to  read 
myself  into  some  sort  of  quietness.  I  had  just 
begun  to  breathe  without  sobbing  when  some  one 
knocked  at  the  door.  I  opened  it,  with  my  heart 


268  The  Chci'alicr's  Daughter. 

throbbing  at  the  thought  that  it  might  be  Andrew, 
and  there  stood  Betty,  her  eyes  cast  down  with  that 
affectation  of  meekness  I  knew  so  well,  and  carry- 
ing in  her  hands  a  tray  laden  with  good  things. 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  supper,''  said  she,  in 
her  silver  tones.  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  would 
not  care  to  come  down." 

"  Oh,  you  did  !  You  are  very  considerate,"  I 
said  bitterly.  "  You  did  not  come  at  all  to  triumph 
in  the  mischief  you  have  made  by  your  lies." 

"  Why,  Vevette,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  astonish- 
ment ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  am  sure  I  did 
not  mean  to  do  you  any  harm,  but  only  to  relieve 
my  own  mind.  I  can't  endure  to  have  secrets  from 
my  mother. ' ' 

All  at  once  Rosamond's  ghost  story  darted  into 
my  mind.  When  the  devil  puts  such  a  weapon  into 
the  hand  of  a  person  in  a  passion,  that  person  is  very 
apt  to  use  it  without  thought  of  co:  sequences. 

"  Oh,  you  cannot  !  Then  perhaps  you  have  told 
your  mother  of  the  pair  of  ghosts  Rosamond  saw 
disappear  near  Torden's  cottage,  one  of  which  had 
on  a  gray  homespun  gown,  and  the  other  looked  so 
much  like  young  Mr.  Level.  I  think  I  will  tell 
Mr.  Dawson  about  these  ghosts,  that  he  may  keep  a 
lookout  for  them,  since  he  is  so  skilful  in  dealing 
with  that  sort  of  gentry." 

Betty  turned  white,  or  rather  gray,  for  a  moment, 
and  nearly  let  her  tray  fall.  Then  she  recovered 
herself  and  said  quietly, 

"  I  don't  think  I  would  tell  any  more  tales  if  I 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  269 

were  you.  You  would  not  be  likely  to  gain  much 
credit  just  now.  I  came  to  make  friends  with 
you." 

"  That  is  false  !"  I  interrupted  her.  "  You  came 
to  triumph  over  me." 

"I  came  to  make  friends  with  yon,'' she  con- 
tinued calmly  ;  "  but  if  you  choose  to  treat  me  as 
an  enemy,  you  can  do  so.  I  pity  you,  Yevette,  and 
I  do  not  blame  you  as  much  as  I  do  those  who  have 
brought  you  up  in  such  ways.  Your  conduct  just 
shows  what  that  religion  is  worth  of  which  we  have 
heard  so  much." 

In  a  quarrel,  the  person  who  has  no  conscience 
always  has  an  advantage  over  the  person  who  has 
one.  Betty  had  certainly  got  the  best  of  it  in  this 
case,  notwithstanding  the  stab  I  had  given  her.  1 
shut  the  door  in  her  face,  and  again  sat  down  to  try 
to  compose  my  thoughts,  but  I  did  not  find  it  so 
easy.  Revenge  is  like  the  little  book  of  the  proph- 
et, in  that  though  it  may  be  sweet  in  the  mouth 
it  is  very  bitter  of  digestion.  I  had  struck  a  telling 
blow,  it  was  true,  but  I  had  gotten  it  back  with  in- 
terest, and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  in  this  instance 
Betty  had  some  truth  on  her  side.  I  was  a  dis- 
credit to  the  parents  who  had  brought  me  up,  and 
the  religion  in  which  I  had  been  educated.  I  had 
brought  shame  on  my  dear  mother  as  well  as  myself. 

Betty  had  indeed  done  me  a  cruel  mischief,  and 
that  not  only  in  the  trap  she  had  so  artfully  laid  for 
me,  and  into  which  I  had  so  foolishly  walked,  like  a 
silly  hare  into  a  springe,  but  in  coming  to  enjoy  her 


270  The  Chevaliers  Daiighter. 

triumph  as  she  had  just  done  ;  for  that  such  was  her 
motive  I  did  not  doubt  then,  nor  do  I  now.  She 
had  drawn  toward  her  that  anger  which  I  had 
hitherto  directed  toward  mj-self ,  and  roused  in  me  a 
spirit  of  anger  and  revenge.  I  felt  as  if  I  could 
have  killed  her.  In  this  state  of  mind  my  mother 
found  me  when  she  came  in  to  talk  to  me  later  in  the 
evening,  nor  did  all  her  expostulations  avail  to  draw 
me  out  of  it.  I  was  ready  to  beg  her  pardon  in  the 
very  dust,  and  to  make  my  submission  to  my  aunt, 
but  I  could  not  and  would  not  forgive  Betty  ;  nay,  I 
would  not  even  say  I  would  try. 

"  Then  you  must  yourself  remain  unforgiven,  my 
poor  child,"  said  my  mother  ;  "under  the  anger 
of  that  Heavenly  Father  whom  you  have  offended. 
Can  you  afford  that  ?  Will  you  still  further  grieve 
that  kind  and  tender  Divine  Friend  whom  you  have 
so  deeply  grieved  already  ?" 

If  I  had  spoken  out  the  thought  that  was  in  my 
heart  I  should  have  said  that  I  did  not  believe  that 
Friend  loved  me  so  very  much,  or  he  M*ould  not 
have  suffered  this  trouble  to  come  upon  me  just 
when  I  was  trying  to  be  so  very  good  ;  but  this  I  did 
not  dare  to  say. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  maman,"  I  answered  her  at 
last.  "  I  never,  never  can  forgive  Betty  for  the  part 
she  has  acted.  She  has  been  ten  times  worse  than 
I,  and  nobody  seems  to  blame  her  at  all.  You  don't 
mind  her  coming  here  to  triumph  over  me — bring- 
ing me  a  tray  forsooth  !  as  if  I  did  not  know  that  she 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          271 

will  never  wait  upon  any  one  if  she  can  help  it. 
You  don't  mind  how  much  I  am  insulted  !" 

It  showed  how  I  was  carried  out  of  myself  that  I 
dared  speak  so  to  my  mother.  I  was  scared  when 
the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth.  But  my  mother 
was  one  who  knew  when  to  reprove  and  punish  and 
when  to  soothe  and  comfort.  She  saw  that  I  was 
almost  beside  myself  with  anger  and  excitement — a 
mood,  I  must  say,  which  was  rare  in  me. 

"We  will  talk  no  more  to-night,"  said  she. 
"  You  had  better  try  to  calm  yourself,  and  to 
sleep.  My  poor  little  maid,  I  thought  I  was  .bring- 
ing you  to  a  safe  nest  when  I  refused  to  leave  you 
in  London.  But  there  are  temptations  everywhere, 
since  there  is  no  earthly  state  from  which  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil  can  be  kept  out.  Go  to  bed, 
my  Yevette,  and  remember,  though  thou  canst  not 
or  wilt  not  pray  for  thyself,  thy  mother  is  praying 
forthee." 

With  that  she  kissed  me  and  returned  to  her  own 
room.  I  burst  into  fresh  tears,  and  cried  till  I  could 
cry  no  more,  and  then,  feeling  my  heart  a  little 
lightened,  I  was  preparing  to  undress  when  sonic 
one  tapped  softly  at  the  door,  and  a  low  voice  said, 

"Vevette!" 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Rosamond,"  was  the  answer.  "  Please  let  me 
in.  I  have  brought  you  a  cup  of  milk  and  some 
bread." 

I  could  not  resist  the  pleading  tones,  and  I  opened 
the  door.  Rosamond  had  been  crying  as  bitterly  as 


272  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

myself,  and  as  she  came  into  the  room  she  set  down 
her  burden  and  clasping  me  in  her  arms  she  kissed 
me  and  cried  again.  My  tears  flowed  too,  but  they 
were  cool  tears  now,  and  refreshed  my  burning  eyes. 

"  Dear  Rosamond,  you  won't  turn  against  me, 
will  you  ?"  said  I. 

*'  No  indeed,"  she  answered  warmly,  and  then 
added,  "  Of  course  you  know  I  must  think  it  was 
wrong  for  you  to  keep  the  book,  and  to  read  ever 
BO  little,  when  you  knew  your  mother  would  not 
allow  it.  But  every  one  does  wrong  sometimes.  If 
we  were  not  sinners  the  dear  Lord  would  not  have 
needed  to  come  down  and  die  for  us. ' ' 

Somehow  these  simple  words  did  more  to  calm 
my  heart,  and  to  show  me  my  sin  at  the  same  time, 
than  anything  had  done  before.  The  dear  Lord 
had  died  for  me,  and  this  was  the  way  I  had  repaid 
hun.  He  was  ready  to  forgive  me,  and  yet  I  would 
not  forgive  Betty.  1  began  to  see  things  in  a  new 
light." 

"  I  know  I  was  very  wrong,1'  said  I,  "  and  I  am 
sorry — indeed  I  am.  But,  Rosamond,  it  was  not  so 
bad.  I  did  not  lend  Betty  the  book  :  I  told  her  she 
should  not  have  it  ;  but  maman  called  me,  and  when 
I  came  back  she  was  gone.  I  have  tried  again  and 
again  to  get  it  out  of  her  hands,  and  then  I  meant  to 
burn  it  up.  But  what  is  the  use  of  talking,  since 
nobody  will  believe  me  ?" 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Rosamond;  "  I  believe 
every  word  you  say.  But  don't  you  see  that  even 
then,  if  you  had  gone  to  your  mother  and  laid  the 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  273 

whole  before  lier,  all  this  would  not  have  happened  ? 
She  might  have  been  displeased,  'tis  true  ;  but  she 
would  have  forgiven  you  and  got  back  the  book,  and 
all  would  have  ended  well  by  this  time." 

"  It  is  true,"  I  answered.  "  I  wish  I  had  done 
as  you  say." 

' '  I  think  the  very  most  straightforward  way  is 
always  the  best  way,  especially  when  one  is  dealing 
with  one  like — like  Betty,"  continued  Rosamond. 
"  There  is  nothing  which  deceitful  people  under- 
stand so  little  as  truth.  But,  Vevette,  if  you  are 
sorry,  it  will  all  come  right  in  the  end.  Let  us 
kneel  down  and  say  the  fifty-first  Psalm  together, 
and  I  am  sure  you  will  feel  better. ' ' 

We  did  so,  and  then  the  dear  maid  repeated  the 
thirty  second  Psalm.  She  was  like  the  holy  well  at 
St.  Wenna's,  which  ran  with  a  clear  but  small 
stream,  while  now  and  then  came  a  great  rush  of 
bright  water,  bubbling  up  through  the  white  pebbles 
and  showing  for  a  moment  the  crystal  depth  below. 
I  had  always  loved  her  from  the  first  of  our 
acquaintance,  but  from  that  hour  began  a  friendship 
which  will  never  end. 

We  kissed  each  other  on  our  knees  and  then 
rose. 

"Do  eat  a  morsel,"  said  Rosamond.  "You 
have  had  no  f.iipjx-r,  and  you  will  be  ill  to-morrow." 

I  tried,  in  complaisance  to  her,  but  I  could  not 
manage  it. 

"  I  cannot  eat,"  said  I ;  "  but  oh,  Rosamond,  I 
am  so  thirsty." 


274  The  Chevaliers  Darighter. 

"  I  will  bring  you  some  cool  water  from  the  well 
in  the  court,"  said  she,  and  taking  a  jug  she  was 
gone  before  I  could  object.  When  she  came  back 
she  looked  startled. 

"  Do  you  know,  Yevette,  I  am  sure  I  saw  that 
same  figure  that  I  saw  before  near  Torden's  cot- 
tage with  the  woman.  It  was  just  under  the  arch- 
way, as  plain  as  could  be  against  the  sky,  and  it 
slipped  away  just  as  before.  Who  or  what  can  it 
be?" 

"  Some  one  hanging  about  after  one  of  the  maids, 
perhaps,"  said  I,  though  I  had  my  own  thoughts 
upon  the  matter.  "Now  you  must  not  stay  any 
longer  or  my  aunt  will  be  angry  and  think  I  am 
corrupting  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  she  won't,"  answered  Rosamond.  "  I 
asked  her  if  I  might  come,  and  she  said  yes,  and 
wanted  me  to  bring  you  all  kinds  of  nice  things, 
but  I  thought  you  would  not  care  for  them.  I 
think  she  is  very  sorry  she  made  such  an  ado  about 
the  matter,  now  that  it  is  ov^er.  Well,  good-night, 
dear  Vevette  ;  I  hope  you  will  sleep." 

But  I  could  not  sleep,  except  feverishly  and  by 
snatches,  till  after  the  birds  began  to  sing  in  the 
morning.  Then  indeed  I  had  a  good  nap,  and  waked 
refreshed.  I  washed  and  dressed,  and  went  softly 
into  my  mother's  room.  She  was  already  up,  and 
kneeling  before  the  table,  on  which  lay,  always  open, 
her  Bible,  and  the  little  worn  prayer-book  she 
brought  from  France.  She  beckoned  me  to  kneel 
beside  her,  and  we  said  our  prayers  together,  as 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  275 

usual.     Then,  as  wo  rose,  she  drew  me  to  her  and 
kissed  me. 

"  The  evil  spirit  has  gone  out — is  it  not  so  ?"  said 
she,  looking  into  my  face  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,  maman,  I  hope  so,"  I  answered.  "I 
am  very  sorry  about  the  book,  and  1  will  try  to  for- 
give Betty." 

' '  That  is  spoken  well,  my  child  ;  and  now  I  must 
tell  you  that  1  think  you  have  been  somewhat 
hardly  dealt  by  in  this  matter.  Looking  it  over 
coolly,  I  can  see  that  I  did  not  make  enough  allow- 
ance for  indecision  and  embarrassment  on  your  part, 
after  you  received  the  book." 

"  Indeed  and  truly,  maman,  I  meant  to  show  you 
the  book,  but  I  quite  forgot  it  till  we  came  here. 
Then  when  Betty  carried  it  off  I  did  not  know  what 
to  do." 

' '  There  was  but  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  was  to 
come  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  my  mother. 
"  That  would  have  saved  all  the  trouble." 

"  So  Rosamond  said.  Oh,  maman,  she  was  so 
good  last  night." 

"  She  is  a  dear  maid,"  said  my  mother  ;  "by 
far  the  best  of  the  three. ' ' 

"  Better  than  Margaret?"  said  I,  surprised,  for  I 
had  looked  upon  Meg  as  a  pattern  of  all  excellence. 

' '  Yes,  because  she  is  truly  humble-minded — a  rare 
and  most  precious  quality.  She  is  truly  poor  in 
spirit,  while  Meg,  with  all  her  good  qualities — but 
we  will  not  discuss  the  faults  of  others.  Now,  do 
you  know  what  is  to  be  done  next  ?" 


276  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

"  I  must  go  to  my  aunt  and  tell  her  that  I  am 
sorry,"  said  I;  "but,  maman,  what  shall  I  say? 
I  cannot  say  that  I  am  sorry  for  lending  Betty  the 
book,  for  I  did  not  lend  it  to  her — she  took  it." 

"  Tell  her  just  how  it  was,  and  say  you  are  sorry 
for  bringing  the  book  here.  I  will  go  with  you  if 
it  will  make  matters  easier." 

"We  found  my  aunt  in  the  still-room — luckily 
alone — pussing  over  some  peppermint  she  was  dis- 
tilling. 

"Do  see  here,  Margaret,"  said  she,  as  we  en- 
tered. "What  ails  this  peppermint?  See  how 
foul  it  runs. ' ' 

"  The  still  is  too  hot,  I  think,"  said  my  mother, 
examining  it  ;  "  and  your  peppermint  is  rather  old. 
I  should  begin  again,  and  with  some  smaller  shoots. 
But,  sister,  Vevette  hath  something  to  say  to 
you." 

"About  what?"  asked  my  aunt  absently,  still 
busy  with  the  refractory  still ;  and  then,  recollecting 
herself,  "  Oh,  about  the  book.  Well,  then,  child,  I 
forgive  you,  only  don't  do  it  again.  I  know  I  was 
warm  myself,  and  said  too  much,  but  that  is  only 
my  way.  There,  run,  that's  a  good  maid,  and  cut 
me  some  nice  lengths  of  the  peppermint.  You 
have  more  sense  about  gathering  of  herbs  than  any 
of  the  others — only  don't  draggle  your  petticoats. 
Why,  what  ails  the  child  ?"  catching  sight  of  my 
face.  "  She  looks  as  if  she  had  had  an  illness." 

"  She  has  been  very  much  distressed  about  this 
affair,"  said  my  mother  ;  "  and  so  have  I  ;  but  I 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          277 

think  if  I  were  to  explain  the  matter  to  you  as  she 
lias  done  to  me — " 

"  Oh,  let  bygones  be  bygones,"  interrupted  my 
aunt.  "  I  hate  explanations  ;  and,  as  I  said,  I  was 
over- warm.  Do  you  want  to  cut  the  herbs,  child  ? 
Do  just  as  you  please." 

"  Yes,  aunt,  I  shall  like  it,"  I  answered,  glad  of 
an  excuse  to  get  into  the  fresh  air.  I  was  at  once 
pleased  and  vexed  that  my  aunt  should  make  so  lit- 
tle of  the  matter.  I  went  down  to  the  peppermint- 
bed  which  grew  under  the  shade  of  a  yew  hedge, 
and  was  busy  choosing  out  the  very  best  shoots 
when  I  heard  voices  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge. 

' '  I  shall  never  ask  her  to  help  in  the  school  again 
— never!"  said  Margaret.  "I  could  not  forgive 
myself  if  she  should  corrupt  the  children." 

"  If  it  had  been  anything  else,"  said  Andrew,  in 
a  voice  of  deep  dejection  ;  ' '  anything  but  decep- 
tion." 

"To  read  such  a  wicked  book,  too,"  said  Mar- 
garet. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  so  very  wicked,  after 
all?"  asked  Rosamond. 

"  Oh,  I  looked  at  it  last  night  as  it  lay  on  the 
table,"  said  Margaret,  quite  sedately. 

"  If  I  knew  it  was  so  wicked  I  would  not  have 
looked  at  it  at  all,"  said  Rosamond.  "And  you 
know  she  said  she  only  read  the  first  poem,  in  which 
there  was  no  harm." 

' '  Yes,  but  who  can  ever  believe  her  ?  I  know  1 
shall  never  trust  her  again.  When  I  have  found 


278  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

any  one  out  once,  there  is  the  end  of  it  with 
me." 

"  According  to  your  own  account  you  are  just  as 
bad  as  Yevette,"  said  Rosamond  ;  "  that  is,  if  you 
don't  tell  lies  every  day." 

"Rosamond,  what  do  you  mean?"  said  Mar- 
garet, in  a  voice  of  amazement  that  almost  made 
me  laugh  aloud.  "  /  as  bad  as  Yevette  ?" 

' '  According  to  your  own  showing, ' '  returned 
Rosamond,  in  the  same  matter-of-fact  way. 
"  Don't  you  say  every  day  of  your  life  that  you 
have  done  the  things  you  ought  not  to  have  done, 
and  left  undone  the  things  you  ought  to  have  done 
— that  there  is  no  health  in  you,  and  you  are  a 
miserable  sinner  ?  I  don't  know  what  Yevette 
could  say  of  herself  worse  than  that." 

"  Rosamond,  you  are  very  pert,"  said  Meg,  and 
I  could  tell  by  her  voice  that  she  was  offended. 
"Of  course  one  says  those  things  because  they  are 
in  the  prayers  of  the  church,  and  the  Bible  says  we 
are  all  sinners  ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  wherein 
I  fail  in  my  duty.  Do  1  ever  tell  lies,  or  read  bad 
books,  or  miss  my  church  or  sacrament  ?  Don't 
I—  Here  she  stopped,  in  a  little  confusion  as  it 
seemed,  thinking,  I  fancy,  that  it  was  not  quite 
seemly  thus  to  blazon  her  good  deeds,  however 
highly  she  might  rate  them. 

"  Then  if  you  never  do  wrong  or  omit  to  do 
good,  why  do  you  say  you  do  ?"  persisted  Rosa- 
mond. "  Is  that  telling  the  truth  ?  Take  care,  sis- 
ter !  It  was  the  publican  who  went  down  to  hi- 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          279 

house  justified,  rather  than  the  man  who  thanked 
God  he  was  not  as  other  men." 

"  You  are  very  impertinent  to  lecture  your  elder 
sister  in  this  way,"  returned  Margaret.  "  I  shall 
speak  to  my  mother  ;"  and  she  walked  away. 

' '  I  believe  you  are  in  the  right,  Rosamond, ' ' 
said  Andrew.  "  We  have  been  too  hard  on  the 
poor  child.  If  it  were  anything  but  deception  !" 

"  I  do  not  read  in  Scripture  that  one  sin  is  worse 
than  another,"  returned  Rosamond.  "  The  Bible 
saith  not  so,  but  that  he  that  offendeth  in  one  point 
is  guilty  of  all.  Besides — " 

I  did  not  care  to  hear  more.  Indeed  I  had  not 
heard  so  much,  only  the  yew  walk  was  my  way  to 
the  house,  and  I  had  been  waiting  hoping  they  would 
pass  on.  I  now  rose  up,  and  passing  through  the 
archway  I  went  on  my  way,  giving  a  kind  good- 
morning  to  Rosamond  and  courtesying  to  Andrew  in 
passing.  He  would  have  spoken,  I  believe,  but  I 
did  not  give  him  the  chance.  When  1  entered  the 
still-room  I  heard  my  aunt  say,  in  a  tone  of  some 
annoyance, 

"  Well,  well,  sister,  we  will  let  the  matter  rest. 
It  is  natural  you  should  justify  your  own  daughter 
as  far  as  you  can.  I  have  told  the  young  ones  to 
say  no  more,  and  to  treat  their  cousin  kindly.  So 
here  she  comes.  Well,  you  have  got  a  little  color, 
child,  in  the  fresh  air.  Yes,  that  is  very  nice. 
You  are  one  who  can  mind  what  you  are  about,  and 
will  make  a  good  housewife  for  all  that  is  come  and 
gone.  There  is  a  piece  of  gingerbread  for  you, 


280 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 


and  yon  had  better  take  a  cup  of  cream  for  your 
breakfast  ;  you  look  but  poorly.  I  think,  sister,  I 
will  give  Vevette  the  small  still,  and  then  she  will 
XK^  J'uvget  what  she  has  learned." 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

A   WEDDING. 

THINK  Margaret  really  did  try  to  meet 
me  as  usual,  but  of  course  she  did  not  suc- 
ceed. She  had  been  vexed  at  Rosamond 
for  having  so  much  the  best  of  it  in  their 
little  argument,  and  I  fancy  too  she  found  her  usual 
self-complacency  a  little  disturbed  ;  so  she  was  very 
stately.  Andrew  did  not  say  much,  but  he  was 
kind,  and  would  have  liked  to  help  me  to  every- 
thing on  the  table.  Betty  was  demure  and  silent, 
with  eyes  cast  down,  though  I  fancied  I  now  and 
then  caught  her  regarding  me  with  some  anxiety. 
I  suppose  she  would  have  liked  to  find  out  how 
much  I  did  know,  or  whether  I  knew  anything.  In 
good  sooth  I  did  not  know  anything,  but  I  must 
needs  own  that  my  suspicions  were  strong,  and  grew 
stronger  the  more  I  considered  the  matter.  In  the 
beginning  of  our  acquaintance  Betty  had  been 
much  disposed  to  make  a  confidante  of  me,  and  she 
herself  had  told  me  that  Mr.  Lovel  had  been  a 
suitor  for  her  hand,  but  that  her  mother  had  re- 
jected him  because  he  was  a  spendthrif  t,  and  had  no 
good  character  in  other  respects,  besides  being  a  total 


282  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

unbeliever — a  fashion  just  then  much  affected  by  a 
certain  class  of  men  who  wished  to  appear  strong- 
minded  and  learned  at  small  cost.  I  could  see  that 
Betty  was  well  enough  disposed  toward  him — in- 
deed she  said  so  ;  and  our  first  breach  came  from  my 
saying  I  wondered  she  could  think  of  such  a  person 
for  a  husband.  I  expressed  myself  pretty  warmly 
on  the  subject,  at  which  she  was  very  much  vexed, 
and  said  some  sharp  things  in  her  turn.  However, 
we  made  up  the  quarrel,  but  when  Betty  began  to 
talk  of  him  again  I,  with  a  degree  of  prudence 
rather  to  be  wondered  at,  positively  refused  to  hear, 
telling  her  that  since  her  mother  and  brother  were 
opposed  to  the  match,  and  with  such  good  reason, 
she  ought  not  to  allow  her  thoughts  to  dwell  upon 
the  subject,  "but  to  conquer  her  regard  for  Mr. 
Lovel,  if  she  had  any.  This  little  lecture  completed 
the  breach  between  us,  and  from  that  time  Betty 
never  lost  a  chance  of  vexing  and  injuring  me,  though 
she  managed  her  matters  with  such  adroitness  that 
even  Andrew  did  not  see  through  them,  and  I  be- 
gan to  wonder  in  myself  whether  I  was  not  grow- 
ing touchy  and  ill-natured. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  my  mother  and 
myself  retired  to  our  apartment,  to  finish  our  prep- 
arations for  the  removal  to  the  Well  House.  They 
were  not  many,  for  most  of  our  goods  were  sent 
thither  already,  and  the  house  having  been  kept  in 
such  nice  order  there  was  but  little  to  do.  My  aunt, 
on  her  part,  was  busy  among  her  storerooms  and 
presses,  and  we  presently  saw  <>M  Mutt  driving  the 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.  283 

laden  donkey  before  him,  and  carrying  as  many 
baskets  as  would  have  loaded  another.  "We  meant 
to  have  gone  away  directly  after  breakfast,  but  aunt 
was  most  earnest  with  us  to  stay  to  dinner  and  par- 
take of  the  feast  which  had  been  put  in  hand  before 
the  unlucky  business  of  the  book.  So,  though  I  at 
least  was  impatient  to  be  gone,  we  consented  to 
remain.  What  a  feast  it  was,  to  be  sure  !  What 
jellies  and  creams  and  tarts  and  pies  of  every  soi  «, 
and  kind  !  (The  Cornish  folk  are  famous  for  pies, 
and  'tis  said  that  the  devil  never  dared  to  come  into 
Cornwall  lest  they  should  take  a  fancy  to  "a 
devilly  pie."  This,  however,  is  not  true.  He  is 
just  as  busy  in  Cornwall  as  anywhere  else.)  We  all 
parted  good  friends,  and  I  forced  myself  to  bid  a 
civil  adieu  to  Betty.  Aunt  Amy  was  careful  to 
put  into  each  of  our  hands  a  package  of  cakes  and 
comfits,  that  we  might  not  enter  our  new  home 
empty-handed  and  thus  bring  scarcity  upon  it. 
Andrew  walked  at  my  mother's  bridle-rein,  as  usual, 
and  Rosamond  and  I  walked  together.  Simon  and 
Jeanne  had  preceded  us. 

When  we  reached  the  house-door  Andrew  assist- 
ed my  mother  to  alight,  and  then  he  and  Rosamond 
took  a  kind  leave  of  us.  He  saluted  me  as  usual, 
but  there  was  a  change  in  his  manner  toward  me 
which  1  felt  bitterly  enough,  though  I  had  too  much 
maidenly  pride  to  show  it.  Then  they  returned 
home,  and  we  entered  our  new  house  together. 
Dinah  and  Jeanne  were  in  the  hall  to  welcome  us, 
and  had  made  a  cheerful  little  fire  upon  the  hearth 


284  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

of  our  sitting-room,  for  though  the  summer  was  in 
its  prime  the  evening  was  cool,  and  a  little  mist 
was  drifting  up  from  the  sea. 

"  The  place  seems  home-like,  does  it  not,  iny 
Yevette  ?"  said  my  mother.  "I  must  say  I  am 
not  sorry  to  be  in  my  own  house  once  more.  All, 
if  your  father  were  but  here  !" 

"He  is  in  a  better  home  than  this,  maman,"  I 
ventured  to  say. 

li  True,  my  child,  and  we  will  not  wish  to  call 
him  back  again.  We  shall  go  to  him,  but  he  will 
not  return  to  us." 

She  kissed  me,  and  we  stood  a  moment  in  silence. 
Then  my  mother  roused  herself  and  proposed  that 
we  should  go  through  the  house. 

We  found  everything  in  beautiful  order,  and  had 
occasion  at  every  step  to  admire  my  aunt's  gener- 
osity and  Andrew's  thoughtfulness.  There  was 
abundance  of  fine  linen  and  of  blankets  and  every- 
thing in  the  housekeeping  h'ne  that  could  be  need- 
ed. Dinah  displayed  with  delight  the  service  of 
real  china,  and  the  silver  salts,  and  the  dredgers  for 
pepper  and  spices,  and  the  pots  upon  pots  of  pre- 
serves and  honey  which  my  aunt  had  provided. 
My  room  opened  from  my  mother's,  and  contained 
the  old  French  cabinet  I  had  so  much  admired,  and 
also  a  little  clock,  which  I  knew  had  been  one  of 
Rosamond's  chief  treasures.  From  Meg,  and  marked 
with  her  name,  was  a  pretty  coverlet  of  silk  patch- 
work— a  kind  of  work  very  fashionable  at  that 
time,  and  in  which  Meg  excelled,  as  she  did  in  most 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          285 

things.  From  Betty  there  was  a  worked  cushion, 
which  I  am  afraid  I  was  spiteful  enough  to  throw 
into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  closet.  From  An- 
drew 1  had  some  beautiful  china  and  the  loveliest 
little  work-table  that  could  be,  besides  a  case  with 
doors,  which  being  opened  I  found  to  contain  a  por- 
trait of  himself,  which  I  suppose  he  had  had  painted 
in  London.  It  was  beautifully  done,  and  looked  at 
me  with  his  very  eyes  and  expression — a  kind  of 
smiling  gravity.  The  kitchens  and  offices  were 
filled  up  with  every  convenience,  and  we  found 
Jeanne  quite  in  ecstasies  over  her  little  dairy  and 
her  two  fine  cows — one  a  long-horned  Devon,  the 
other  a  comical  little  black  Welsh  cow  with,  no 
horns  at  all. 

"  Ah,  madame,  had  I  but  a  Normandy  brass  jar  for 
milking  in  I  should  be  quite  happy,"  said  the  good 
woman.  "  To  think  what  beautiful  milk- jars  I 
had,  and  how  they  are  all  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
the  Philistines,  as  it  were  !" 

"  Ah,  my  poor  Jeanne,  if  it  were  only  the  milk- 
jars  that  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Philis- 
tines !"  said  old  Simon.  "  But  we  must  be  thank- 
ful that  we  have  been  so  kindly  dealt  by  in  this 
strange  land.  Will  madame  come  to  the  stable  and 
look  at  the  horses  ?" 

u  Horses  !  what  horses  ?"  asked  my  mother,  in 
surprise. 

"  The  two  saddle-horses,  inadame,  and  the  pony 
for  mamselle,  and  the  donkey.  Indeed  they  are 
nice  creatures.  Monsieur  Corbet  recommended  the 


286  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

gray  for  madame's  riding,  and  the  pony  is  as  pretty 
and  gentle  a  creature  for  a  young  ludy  as  I  ever 
saw.  Monsieur  has  been  training  it  for  this  fort- 
night." 

Of  course  we  must  go  to  see  them,  and  I  was  in 
ecstasies  over  my  pony,  but  my  mother  looked  a  lit- 
tle grave. 

"  Andrew  overloads  us  with  benefits,"  said  she. 
' '  I  must  talk  with  him  about  these  same  horses.  The 
obligation  is  almost  too  great.  But  never  mind,  my 
Vevette ;  enjoy  your  pretty  Blanche.  See  how 
she  stoops  her  head  to  be  petted  !" 

We  returned  to  the  house  to  find  supper  served, 
and  Dinah,  who  had  stepped  easily  enough  into  the 
place  of  waiting  gentlewoman,  standing  behind 
my  mother's  chair.  We  had  been  a  little  afraid 
Jeanne's  feelings  might  be  wounded  by  this  arrange- 
ment, but  she  fell  into  it  more  than  contentedly. 
She  was  born  a  cook,  and  her  delight  in  having  such 
a  neat  kitchen  to  rule  in  her  own  way  overcame  every 
other  consideration.  Simon  had  had  great  pleasure 
in  putting  to  rights  the  rather  overgrown  garden, 
which  was  now  a  picture  of  neatness,  and  he  de- 
clared he  could  easily  take  care  both  of  that  and  the 
garden  at  the  Court  till  such  time  as  Andrew  could 
suit  himself  with  a  gardener. 

The  next  day  was  mine  at  the  school,  but  I  did 
not  go  thither,  being  resolved,  after  all  I  had  heard, 
never  to  set  foot  therein  till  Margaret  came  and 
asked  me.  With  the  help  of  the  pins  Andrew  Lad 
made  I  had  got  three  or  four  of  the  elder  girls, 


The  Chevalier  s  Daiighter.          287 

along  with  Peggy  Mellish,  nicely  started  in  knit- 
ting. Now,  as  I  have  said,  Margaret  could  do 
most  things  better  than  any  one  else  ;  but  she  had 
never  known  how  to  knit  till  she  had  learned  it  of 
me,  and  she  was  by  no  means  quick  at  it.  The 
truth  was,  she  had  expected  to  take  up  the  art  at 
once  and  knit  at  the  very  first  start  as  fast  and  as 
well  as  I  did,  and  when  she  found  that  she  must 
needs  begin  as  slowly  as  one  of  the  maids  at  the 
school,  and  that  she  dropped  stitches  arid  split 
threads  when  she  tried  to  knit  fast,  she  was  a  good 
deal  out  of  patience.  I  must  needs  confess  that  it 
gave  me  a  little  wicked  pleasure  to  think  of  the 
embarrassment  she  would  fall  into  over  the  knit- 
ting. 

I  busied  myself  all  the  morning  in  arranging 
our  affairs  and  in  looking  over  the  house  and 
grounds.  1  made  various  interesting  discoveries — of 
an  old  carved  spinning-wheel,  which  I  determined 
at  once  to  have  put  to  rights  ;  of  various  odd  bits  of 
tapestry  and  hangings  ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  a  light 
closet  full  of  books.  A  great  many  of  them  were 
books  of  divinity,  in  which  I  took  little  interest, 
but  among  the  other  volumes  I  found  Stowe's 
"Annals,"  my  old  friends  the  "Arcadia''  and 
Hackluyt's  "  Voyages,"  a  volume  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  and  the  whole  of  Spenser's  "  Fairy  Queen," 
of  which  I  had  read  only  one  odd  volume.  Mindful 
of  my  late  troubles,  I  did  not  open  one  of  these 
books  till  I  told  my  mother  of  them  and  asked  her 
consent. 


288  The  Chevalier  Daughter  s. 

"  I  will  look  them  over  and  then  tell  you,"  said 
my  mother. 

"  You  will  find  no  ill  in  them,  niadaine,T  venture 
to  say,"  observed  Dinah.  "  Those  books  mostly 
belonged  to  my  honored  father,  and  I  do  not 
believe  there  is  one  from  which  my  young  lady 
would  take  any  harm. ' ' 

"  Then,  if  the  books  belonged  to  your  father, 
they  are  yours  now,"  I  observed. 

"  You  know  he  was  not  really  my  father,"  an- 
swered Dinah.  "  I  was  but  a  foundling,  and  could, 
inherit  nothing,  and  he  never  made  a  will.  I  have 
kept  his  books  and  some  other  things  as  it  were  in 
trust,  till  the  rightful  heir  should  appear  to  claim 
them.  At  all  events,  you  and  Mrs.  Vedette  are  quite 
welcome  to  the  use  of  any  of  the  books. ' ' 

'  You  do  not  remember  anything  of  what  your 
life  was  before  you  came  here,  I  suppose,"  said  my 
mother. 

"No,  madame,  not  with  any  distinctness.  I 
recollect  dimly  a  fine  mansion-house  or  castle,  and 
a  room  hung  with  tapestry.  I  remember  a  lady 
who  used  to  pet  me  and  teach  me  verses  and  prayers. 
Then  1  recollect  being  taken  from  my  bed  in  the 
dark,  hastily  wrapped  in  my  clothes  and  told  not  to 
cry,  and  being  carried  abroad  in  the  night.  After 
that  all  is  confusion  till  I  came  here." 

"  That  is  like  our  own  escape,"  remarked  my 
mother. 

"  Yes,  madame,  and  1  think  it  likely  that  my 
parents  may  also  have  been  among  those  who  had 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  289 

• 
to  fly  for  their  lives.     But  who  they  were  or  what 

has  become  of  them  will,  I  suppose,  always  remain  a 
mystery." 

"  You  say  your  mother,  or  the  lady  you  remem- 
ber, taught  you  verses.  Can  you  recollect  any  of 
them  ?"  asked  my  mother. 

"  Only  a  line  or  two,  madamc,"  and  she  repeated 
a  few  lines,  which  my  mother  recognized  instantly. 
* '  Why,  that  is  the  beginning  of  the  '  Noble  Lesson, ' 
one  of  the  most  honored  symbols  of  the  Yaudois  !" 
said  she.  "  My  husband  could  repeat  it  from  end 
to  end,  and  so  can  I,  if  I  have  not  forgotten."  And 
she  repeated  a  number  of  lines  in  the  same  language 
which  is  that  still  spoken  in  the  Yaudois  vale?, 
and  to  some  extent  in  Provence.  T  never  saw  any 
one  more  delighted  than  our  poor  little  lady-in- 
waiting  at  this  unexpected  discovery.  She  had 
always  liked  my  mother  and  me,  but  now  she 
seemed  ready  to  kiss  the  very  hem  of  our  garments. 
She  showed  us  the  little  golden  dove  she  had  worn 
around  her  neck.  It  seemed  as  if  made  to  open, 
but  we  could  not  find  the  way  to  do  it.  My  mother 
said  a  dove  in  silver  or  gold  was  a  very  common 
ornament  among  the  Protestants  of  Provence  and 
Languedoc,  to  some  family  of  which  she  now  be- 
lieved Dinah  to  belong. 

Of  course  this  discovery  bound  us  all  the  more 
closely  together.  Jeanne  was  delighted,  and  would 
fain  have  recalled  for  Dinah's  benefit  her  native 
tongue,  but  Dinah  could  only  remember  the  few 
words  she  had  repeated  to  us. 


290  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

That  afternoon  my  mother  would  go  down  to  the 
shore  and  see  the  poor  fishermen's  families,  several 
of  whom  lived  at  the  entrance  of  the  cooinbe.  We 
found  them  rude  enough  in  their  manner  of  living, 
of  course,  but  courteous,  and  pleased  with  our  visit, 
especially  old  Dame  Madge,  who  had  known  my 
mother  when  a  girl,  and  who  was  vehement  in  her 
expressions  of  delight  at  having  her  so  near. 

' '  But,  do  tell,  madaine  ;  is  it  true  that  you  have 
taken  Dinah  to  be  your  waiting- woman  ?" 

"Quite  true.  Why  not?"  asked  my  mother. 
"  She  is  most  skilful  with  her  needle,  and  well  bred, 
and  I  think  myself  fortunate  in  keeping  her  about 
me." 

"  And  do  you  think  then,  madame,  that  she  is  a 
natural-born  woman,  and  no  sea-maid  ?  They  say 
down  here  that  she  can  go  back  into  the  sea  when- 
ever she  pleases  and  bring  back  the  finest  fish. 
Why,  my  son-in-law — and  a  fine  good  lad  he  is,  and 
like  an  own  son  to  me,  though  my  poor  daughter,  his 
wife,  only  lived  with  him  four  years  before  she  died 
of  a  waste — my  son-in-law  says  that  she  once  asked 
him  for  some  fish  for  her  father,  as  she  called  him. 
And  Ben  said  he  had  none,  but  if  the  old  gentle- 
man was  ill  and  fancied  fish,  he  would  go  out  and 
try  what  he  could  do,  and  she  thanked  him  and  said 
he  was  very  kind  ;  and  if  you  will  believe  me,  mad- 
ame, though  he  had  had  the  worst  of  luck  for  ever  so 
long,  that  night  he  had  the  best  catch  ever  he  made. 
1  can  tell  you,  we  were  all  ready  to  please  Dinah 
after  that.  And  she  knows  more  about  herbs  than 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  291 

any  one  I  ever  saw — more  than  she  ought,  some 
think — though  she  says  she  learned  it  all  out  of  a 
book  she  has.  Never  was  anything  like  the  medi- 
cine she  made  for  my  poor  child' s  cough. ' ' 

' '  It  seems,  then,  that  she  uses  her  knowledge  to 
good  purpose,"  said  my  mother,  smiling.  "No, 
dame,  I  do  not  think  her  a  sea-dame,  but  the  child 
of  some  one  wrecked  upon  the  coast." 

"  Ah,  well,  no  doubt  you  know  best,  madame. 
Anyhow,  she  does  naught  but  good  that  we  know 
on,  and  'tis  best  to  be  on  the  right  side  of  such 
creatures." 

We  went  next  to  visit  Anne  Barker,  who  was  a 
widow  with  two  daughters,  one  of  whom  was  lame 
and  confined  to  her  bed  and  chair,  while  the  other 
was  one  of  the  best  girls  in  Margaret's  school.  We 
found  the  poor  thing — Lois  was  her  name — sitting 
up  in  her  great  three-cornered  chair,  trying  to  knit 
with  two  slender  pegs  which  she  had  made  from 
wood.  She  had  partly  learned  the  stitch  from  her 
sister,  and  was  succeeding  but  indifferent  well.  I 
at  once  sat  down  by  her  and  began  to  give  her  in- 
struction, and  she  soon  mastered  the  stitch,  to  her 
great  delight. 

"Ah,  poor  maid,  she  is  pleased  enough  !"  said 
her  mother.  "  She  cannot  take  the  spinning-wheel, 
and  the  net- making  is  too  hard  for  her,  so  time 
hangs  but  heavily  with  her." 

"What  was  the  cause  of  her  malady?"  asked 
my  mother. 

( '  She  was  pisky-struck,  madame.    The  very  week 


292  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

after  she  was  born  the  careless  woman  who  was 
with  me  went  out  and  left  us  alone,  and  I  asleep 
with  an  unchristened  babe.  I  was  waked  by  a  great 
noise,  as  of  something  running  up  the  wall,  and  the 
next  minute  I  heard  the  babe  scream,  and  there  it 
lay  on  the  ground.  No  doubt  the  piskies  would 
have  carried  it  off  altogether  if  I  had  not  waked 
just  in  time.  After  that  it  never  thrived,  poor 
dear." 

"  Perhaps  is  was  hurt  falling  from  the  bed,"  I 
ventured  to  suggest. 

"  But  what  made  it  fall  '*  No,  madame,  it  was 
the  piskies.  I  had  the  luck  to  displease  them  by 
accidentally  treading  on  a  fairy  ring,  and  no  doubt 
they  meant  to  have  their  revenge." 

"  You  did  not  see  them  ?" 

"  No,  madame,  but  I  heard  them  as  plain  as  I 
hear  you.  A  better  maid  than  poor  Lois  never  lived, 
though  I  say  it  that  shouldn't,  but  she  can  do  little 
for  herself  or  any  one  else." 

"  Can  you  read  ?"  asked  my  mother  of  Lois. 

"No,  madame,"  was  the  answer.  "My  sister 
nath  taught  me  a  little,  but  not  to  read  a  book. ' ' 

"  And  would  you  like  to  learn  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  indeed,  madame.  My  father  could 
read,  and  we  have  his  great  Bible.  Dibby  tells 
me  what  she  hears  parson  read  in  church  sometimes, 
and  I  often  wish  I  could  make  it  out  for  myself. ' ' 

"We  sat  a  little  while  longer  and  then  took  our 
leave,  promising  to  come  again.  When  we  were 
outside  the  door  my  mother  remarked, 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          293 

"  Well,  Vevette,  here  is  work  come  to  your  hand, 
and  of  the  sort  you  like.  Why  should  you  not 
teach  poor  Lois  to  read  ?" 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  1  might,"  said  I. 
"  And  then,  perhaps,  I  might  have  some  of  the 
others.  Really  and  truly,  maman,  the  walk  is  very 
hard  and  long  for  the  little  ones,  especially  in  bad 
weather. " 

"  Well,  well,  we  will  see.  Begin  with  poor  Lois, 
at  all  events. " 

So  I  did,  the  very  next  day.  My  proposal  to 
teach  her  was  received  with  rapture  by  both  mother 
and  daughter.  I  had  always  a  knack  of  teaching, 
and  I  soon  had  Lois  prosperously  started  upon  a 
pair  of  hose,  and  able,  with  some  help,  to  make  out 
a  chapter  in  the  Testament.  Besides,  I  read  to  her 
every  day  as  a  reward,  and  I  shall  never  forget  her 
delight  over  the  stories  in  the  Gospels.  But  a  good 
many  things  happened  in  the  mean  time. 

Rosamond  came  down  next  day  with  her  Italian 
book,  and  we  had  a  lesson  in  that  and  in  music  from 
my  mother. 

The  next  day  she  came  again,  this  time  with  Meg, 
who  in  rather  a  shamefaced  way  asked  me  whether 
I  was  not  coming  to  the  school  any  more. 

"  That  depends,"  said  I.  "I  thought  you  were 
not  going  to  allow  me."  Then,  as  Meg  colored,  I 
felt  sorry  for  her  confusion,  and  said,  "  I  suppose 
you  want  help  about  the  knitting." 

"I  can  make  nothing  of  it,"  answered  Meg, 
"  and  I  thought — I  did  not  know — "  then  she  stop- 


294  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

ped,  still  more  confused  at  tlie  smile  I  could  by  no 
means  repress.     Rosamond  came  to  her  aid. 

"  Margaret,  why  not  say  at  once  that  you  are 
sorry  for  \vhat  you  said  about  Vevette,  and  that 
you  will  be  glad  if  she  will  overlook  it  and  help  you 
again.  That  is  the  easiest  way  out  of  the  trouble.' ' 

I  expected  to  see  Meg  angry,  but  she  was  not. 

"  Thank  you,  Rosamond,  that  is  what  I  mean," 
said  she.  "  I  was  too  hasty  in  condemning  Vevette, 
and  I  am  sorry,  and  shall  be  very  glad  of  her  help. 
Will  that  be  enough,  cousin,  or  must  I  ask  down- 
right D  unstable  here  to  make  my  peace  for  me  ?" 

"  That  is  enough,  and  more  than  enough,"  said  I. 
"  I  will  help  you,  of  course,  though  I  have  also  a 
pupil  down  here."  And  I  told  her  about  Lois. 
She  was  greatly  pleased,  and  we  talked  again  over 
my  plan  of  establishing  a  dame-school  for  the  little 
ones,  under  the  care  of  the  widow  and  her  lame 
daughter.  Margaret,  with  all  her  pride,  had  not  an 
atom  of  venom  or  malice  about  her.  Once  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  pass  over  a  thing,  that  was 
the  end  of  it. 

"  And  how  is  Betty  ?"  I  asked. 

"  She  is  far  from  well,  and  keeps  her  chamber 
the  last  two  days,"  said  Margaret  ;  "  but  my 
mother  cannot  tell  what  ails  her,  only  she  is  giddy 
as  soon  as  she  sits  up.  She  is  very  easily  disturbed , 
and  likes  to  stay  alone  best." 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  a  fever,"  said  I. 

"  No,  she  hath  no  fever,  and  her  appetite  is 
good  enough.  It  is  only  the  pain  and  giddiness  in 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          295 

her  head.  Then  you  will  come  to  the  school  to- 
morrow ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  desire  it,"  said  I,  and  so  the  matter 
was  settled.  We  had  not  seen  Andrew  since  we 
parted  from  him  at  the  door  of  the  house  on  our 
first  arrival.  Now,  however,  he  came  down  to  walk 
home  with  his  sisters.  He  saluted  my  mother  and 
myself  as  usual,  and  to  mamun  he  was  just  the 
same  ;  but  there  was  a  kind  of  sad  constraint  in  his 
manner  to  me  which  I  felt  at  once.  In  my  maid- 
enly pride  I  was  determined  to  show  that  I  was  not 
affected  by  it,  and  I  chatted  on  with  the  girls,  mak- 
ing a  great  deal  of  talk  over  the  embroidery  stitch 
Margaret  was  showing  me,  and  laughing  at  my  own 
stupidity  while  my  heart  swelled  with  mingled  grief 
and  anger.  I  thought  Andrew  was  hard  and  unjust 
toward  me,  and  hardness  and  injustice  from  one  we 
love  and  respect  is  very  hard  to  bear.  I  was  glad 
when  they  all  went  away,  and  I  could  run  up  to  my 
own  room  and  relieve  myself  by  a  few  bitter  tears. 

The  next  day  Andrew  came  again,  and  this  time 
with  great  news.  There  was  a  certain  estate  in 
Devonshire  which  should  have  descended  to  my 
mother  by  the  will  of  her  grandmother,  but  which 
had  long  been  in  dispute,  and  had  threatened  to  eat 
itself  up,  as  the  saying  goes,  in  law  expenses. 
Andrew  brought  word  that  by  the  discovery  of 
some  new  evidence — a  later  will,  I  believe — the 
matter  was  definitely  settled,  and  that  when  our 
honest  share  of  the  expenses  was  paid  the  estate 
would  be  worth  no  less  than  three  hundred  a  year 


296  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

to  my  mother  and  me.  He  proposed  to  go  at  once 
to  Exeter  to  attend  to  the  iinal  settlement,  if  my 
mother  wished  it  and  would  give  him  proper 
powers. 

"  But  that  is  hardly  fair,"  said  my  mother.  "  It 
will  take  a  week  or  more  out  of  your  short  remain- 
ing time  at  home." 

"  That  does  not  matter,"  answered  Andrew 
abruptly  ;  and  then  added,  "  Besides,  the  sailing  of 
the  ship  is  put  off  another  two  weeks.  I  begin  to 
think  she  will  never  go  at  all." 

"  Are  you,  then,  in  such  a  hurry  to  be  gone  ?"  I 
said,  without  thinking.  I  could  have  bitten  my 
tongue  with  vexation  a  moment  after. 

"  Sailors  soon  grow  tired  of  life  on  shore,"  said 
he  not  unkindly.  "  The  sea  never  lets  go  of  any 
one  it  has  once  taken  hold  of,  and  you  know  the 
saying  is  that  it  always  draws  those  whose  parents 
it  lias  drowned."  Then,  after  a  little  silence,  "  Ye- 
vette,  will  you  walk  up  the  church-path  with  me  ? 
I  want  to  show  you  a  new  plant  I  have  found." 

I  was  in  two  minds  to  refuse,  but  after  a  mo- 
ment's consideration  I  agreed,  and  went  to  fetch 
my  mantle  and  hood.  We  walked  a  little  while  in 
silence,  enjoying  the  fresh  evening  air  and  the 
breeze  perfumed  with  that  strange,  sweet  scent  of 
the  cave  and  the  moorland  together  which  one 
meets  nowhere  but  by  the  sea.  Then  Andrew 
said, 

"  Vevette,  if  you  could  tell  me  one  thing  it 
would  ease  my  mind  wonderfully." 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          297 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Was  the  other  day  the  first  time  you — the  first 
time—" 

"  The  first  time  I  ever  deceived  my  mother  ?"  I 
said,  to  help  him  out.  "  Was  that  what  you  want 
to  know  ?"  Then,  as  he  nodded  assent,  "  .No, 
Andrew,  it  was  not.  When  I  was  quite  a  child, 
not  more  than  twelve  years  old,  my  Uncle  Charles 
sent  my  mother  some  tales  and  play-books,  and  I 
stole  two  or  three  of  them  and  read  them  in  secret. 
I  had  them  till  the  day  before  we  went  to  the  sup- 
per at  the  grange,  and  then  I  burned  them  all. 
Since  then  I  have  read  nothing  of  the  sort  till  that 
day  Betty  persuaded  me  to  read  with  her  the  book 
my  Aunt  Jem  gave  me." 

"  And  this  is  the  whole  truth  !"  said  he.  Then,  as 
I  withdrew  a  step  and  looked  at  him,  he  added 
eagerly,  ' '  Forgive  me,  Yevette,  but  this  matter  is 
of  such  great  importance  to  ine.  So  much  depends 
upon  it." 

"  So  much  depends  upon  it  !"  I  repeated. 
"  What  ?"  Then,  as  he  did  not  answer,  I  went  on 
firmly,  though  with  a  mortal  pang  at  my  heart, 
"  Andrew,  I  want  you  to  understand  one  thing.  If 
you  have  any  doubt  of  me,  any  doubt  whatever  of 
my  being  worthy,  if  you  have  any  hesitation  in  the 
matter,  I  will  never  consent  to  be  your  wife — never, 
for  all  the  family  compacts  ever  made  in  the 
world." 

1  spoke  vehemently,  yet  with  low  voice,  as  I  was 
apt  to  do  when  greatly  moved.  We  had  just  come 


.298  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

to  a  turn  iii  the  path,  and  before  us  lay  the  half- 
ruined  cottage — Torden's  cottage.  It  was  a  place 
avoided  after  dark,  for  it  had  an  ill  name  on  ac- 
count of  a  wrecker  who  had  once  lived  there,  and 
who  had  died  a  fearful  death.  As  we  caine  in 
sight  of  it  we  saw  two  figures  before  us — the  two 
whom  Rosamond  had  described — a  tall  slender  man 
in  a  cloak,  and  a  female  figure  in  a  gray  homespun 
gown.  As  we  drew  near  she  turned  her  head  a 
very  little. 

Andrew  gripped  my  hand  hard.  "  Betty  !"  said 
he,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Nonsense,"  I  whispered  in  return.  "  Did  you 
not  say  Betty  was  ill  in  bed  ?"  But  at  that  mo- 
ment she  turned  her  head  again  and  I  saw  her  face 
plainly.  It  was  Betty.  I  laid  a  restraining  hand 
on  my  cousin's  arm,  but  he  shook  it  off,  and  one 
stride,  as  it  seemed,  brought  him  to  the  side  of  the 
two  before  us.  They  turned  at  his  approach,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  hi  speechless  confusion.  Then 
Betty  recovered  her  presence  of  mind,  if  such  it 
could  be  called. 

u  Vevette,  you  have  betrayed  us,"  said  she. 
"  So  much  for  trusting  a  French  girl." 

Andrew  turned  absolutely  white  as  he  heard  these 
words. 

"How  could  I  betray  what  I  never  knew  ?"  I 
asked,  finding  my  voice,  for  at  first  I  was  dum- 
founded  by  the  unexpected  attack.  "  You  never 
placed  any  confidence  in  me,  nor  did  I  ever  desiro 
it." 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  299 

What  was  my  amazement  to  hear  Betty  declare 
that  I  had  been  in  her  secret  from  the  first,  and 
had  aided  her  in  meeting  with  her  lover.  She  ap- 
pealed to  Mr.  Lovel  if  it  were  not  so,  and  he  con- 
firmed her  words  with  an  oath.  Andrew  turned 
from  her  to  me,  with  a  face  full  of  wrath  and  grief. 

"  What  am  1  to  believe  ?"  said  he. 

"  Believe  what  you  like,"  said  I,  for  my  blood 
was  up.  ' '  Every  word  that  Betty  says  is  false,  and 
she  knows  it." 

"  Gently,  my  fair  cousin  that  is  to  be,"  interposed 
Mr.  Lovel,  with  a  supercilious  little  laugh.  "  I  do 
not  allow  such  language  to  my  betrothed  bride. 
Mr.  Corbet,  methinks  you  and  I  can  settle  this  mat- 
ter better  without  female  witnesses.  Let  us  attend 
these  fair  ladies  to  their  respective  homes,  and  then 
we  will  endeavor  to  come  to  an  understanding." 

"  Charles,  remember  your  promise,"  said  Betty, 
turning  pale. 

"Fear  nothing,  child.  I  shall  not  forget  that 
Mr.  Corbet  is  your  brother,  nor  do  I  think  we  shall 
find  it  hard  to  come  to  an  amicable  agreement. 
Mrs.  d'Antin,  shall  we  turn  your  way  first  ?" 

"  Do  not  discommode  yourself,  sir,"  said  An- 
drew, with  lofty  courtesy.  "  I  am  able  to  take  care 
both  of  my  sister  and  my  cousin.  Perhaps  you 
will  have  the  goodness  to  call  upon  me  to-morrow. 
or  allow  me  to  wait  upon  you  wherever  you  are 
staying.  For  the  present  I  must  say  good- 
night," 

Mr.  Lovel  seemed  at  first  ready  to  fly  upon  An- 


300  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

drew  like  an  angry  dog,  but  in  a  moment  he  re- 
strained himself,  and  replied,  with  equal  courtesy, 

"  To-morrow,  then,  at  ten  o'clock,  I  will  do  my- 
self the  honor  of  waiting  upon  you."  And  raising 
his  hat  he  strode  away  toward  the  village,  it 
seemed  for  a  moment  that  Betty  meant  to  run  after 
him,  but  if  so  she  thought  better  of  it,  and  snatch- 
ing her  hand  from  Andrew's  she  fled  toward  home 
like  a  startled  deer. 

4 '  Go  after  her ;  she  may  do  something  desper- 
ate," said  I.  "I  can  find  my  way  home  well 
enough." 

So  saying,  I  turned  from  him  and  walked  de- 
liberately down  the  path  till  I  was  out  of  sight, 
when  I  began  to  run,  and  never  stopped  till  I  found 
myself  at  home  and  in  the  arms  of  my  mother,  who 
had  come  to  the  door  to  look  for  me. 

"What  is  it,  my  child?"  she  exclaimed,  as  I 
clung  to  her,  sobbing  and  out  of  breath.  "  Has 
anything  frightened  you  ?  Where  is  Andrew  ?" 

As  soon  as  I  could  recover  composure  enough  to 
speak,  I  drew  her  into  the  little  parlor  and  told  her 
the  whole  story.  My  mother  heard  it  in  silence, 
but  with  a  very  troubled  face. 

"  Oh,  mamaii,  you  do  not  believe  what  Betty 
says,"  I  exclaimed,  as  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Tell  me  the  exact  truth,  my  child,"  said  she. 
"  What  did  Betty  ever  say  to  you  on  the  subject  ? 
Try  to  remember  every  word." 

1  did  so,  and  told  her  all — how  Betty  had  spoken 
to  me  of  Mr.  Lovel,  and,  as  J  believed,  had  meant 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          301 

to  draw  me  into  a  confidence,  which  I  had  declined. 
I  also  told  her  of  the  advice  I  had  given  on  the 
occasion. 

"  That  was  well,"  said  my  mother.  "  And  had 
you  no  suspicion  that  Betty  was  keeping  up  a  con- 
nection with  Mr.  Lovel  ?" 

"None  at  all,"  I  told  her.  "  The  first  time  I  ever 
suspected  anything  was  when  Rosamond  told  us  of 
the  two  figures  she  had  seen  near  Torden's  cottage, 
and  which  she  had  believed  to  be  spectres  or  some- 
what else  of  supernatural.'1 

"Why  did  you  not  mention  your  suspicion?" 
asked  my  mother. 

"Dear  inaman,  how  could  I?"  I  asked.  "I 
hardly  entertained  it  a  moment.  Then  when  I  saw 
Betty  afterward  turn  so  white  when  the  affair  was 
mentioned,  and  when  that  very  night  Rosamond 
saw  the  same  man's  figure  in  the  entrance  to  the 
court,  I  did  think  more  about  it  ;  but  I  had  no 
proof,  and  it  was  no  concern  of  mine,  and  afterward 
I  quite  forgot  it.  How  could  I  mention  the  affair 
when  I  had  no  proofs,  and  to  whom  ?" 

' '  True,  you  could  not, ' '  said  my  mother  ;  ' '  but 
it  is  very  unlucky,  and  I  fear  trouble  will  arise  to 
you  from  the  affair.  My  sister  will  believe  harm 
of  any  one  sooner  than  of  her  own  daughters,  though 
she  knows  and  has  said  as  much  to  me,  that  Betty  is 
both  malicious  and  deceitful.  Well,  my  love,  we 
must  do  our  best,  and  leave  the  event  in  other 
hands.  I  believe  you  have  been  quite  guiltless  in 
the  whole  matter  ;  and  not  only  so,  but  that  you 


302  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

have  acted  with  great  discretion.  But,  coming  so 
soon  after  the  affair  of  the  book,  I  fear  you  will  bu 
blamed  for  what  you  have  had  no  hand  in." 

"  Then  you  do  believe  in  me,  niaman  ?"  I  asked, 
kissing  her  hand. 

"Most  surely  I  do,  my  child.  What  did  An- 
drew say  ?" 

"  He  looked  at  me  and  asked  what  he  was  to  be- 
lieve, and  then  I  told  him  he  could  believe  what  he 
pleased.  He  had  been  talking  before  that  about 
the  book,  and  asked  me  whether  it  was  the  first 
time,  and  I  told  him — what  I  told  you,  niaman. 
Then  he  did  not  speak  again  till  we  came  upon 
Betty  and  Mr.  Lovel." 

"Andrew  shows  a  side  of  his  character  which 
does  not  please  me,"  remarked  my  mother.  "  With 
all  his  good  qualities  there  is  a  certain  hardness 
about  him.  It  was  not  generous  in  him  to  bring 
the  subject  up  again." 

I  had  thought  the  same,  and  I  now  spoke  with  a 
decision  and  boldness  which  surprised  myself. 

"  Maman,  you  must  let  me  say  one  thing,  and 
please  do  not  be  angry.  I  wTill  never  consent  to 
marry  Andrew  while  he  is  as  he  is  now — while  he 
distrusts  me,  or  shows  such  a  coldness  toward  me. 
Nothing  shall  force  me  to  it." 

"  Certainly  1  shall  not  force  you  to  it,"  returned 

my  mother,  with  equal  decision.      "  My  child  shall 

never  go  to  a  cold  or  unwilling  bridegroom." 

.  "  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him,"  said  I,  and  with 

that  I  fell  a-weeping  with  such  violence  that  my 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.      .     303 

mother  was  alarmed.  She  led  me  up  to  bed  her- 
self, administered  a  quieting  potion,  and  sat  by  me 
till  I  fell  asleep.  The  next  morning  I  awaked  re- 
freshed in  body,  but  so  heavily  burdened  in  mind 
and  heart  that  I  shut  my  eyes  and  wished  the  day- 
light would  never  come.  But  daylight  and  dark- 
ness do  not  change  to  suit  our  moods,  and  I  reflected 
that  I  must  not  add  to  my  mother's  cares  ;  so  I  rose 
and  dressed,  and  tried  to  be  composed  if  I  could 
not  be  cheerful.  "We  had  hardly  finished  our 
breakfast  when  a  messenger  came  down  requesting 
our  presence  at  the  court.  We  found  the  whole 
family  assembled  in  the  cedar  room,  together  with 
Mr.  Lovel.  Betty  was  pale  as  death,  but  demure 
and  collected.  Mr.  Lovel  was  trying,  with  some 
success,  to  play  the  easy  fine  gentleman  and  man  of 
the  world.  Andrew  was  stern  and  silent.  The 
moment  we  entered  my  aunt  fell  upon  mo  with  vio- 
lent and  incoherent  reproaches  for  leading  her  child 
astray. 

11  Hush,  mother  !"  said  Andrew.  "  Let  Yevette 
l>e  heard  in  her  own  defence,  if  she  hath  anything 
to  say." 

My  mother  drew  herself  up,  declining  the  seat 
which  Andrew  placed  for  her.  "  Perhaps,  nephew, 
you  will  allow  her  mother  to  understand  why  my 
child  is  to  be  put  upon  her  defence.  Of  what  hath 
she  been  accused,  and  by  whom  ?" 

"  Betty  says,"  returned  Andrew,  "  that  Yevette 
was  in  her  confidence  all  along,  and  abetted  her 

o  ' 

meetings  with  Mr.  Lovel." 


304  The  Chevalier  Daughters. 

"She  did,"  said  Betty.  "  We  talked  of  the 
affair  when  she  first  came  here,  and  afterward,  when 
she  was  angry  about  the  hook,  she  taunted  me  with 
it  and  threatened  to  tell." 

u  What  have  you  to  say,  Vevette  ?"  asked  my 
m  other. 

I  simply  repeated  the  story  just  as  it  was. 

' '  Can  you  deny  that  you  taunted  me  that  night 
with  meeting  Mr.  Lovel  ?"  asked  Betty. 

"  I  did  not  taunt  you  with  meeting  him,  for  I 
never  knew  for  certain  that  you  did  meet  him.  A 
suspicion  came  into  my  mind,  and  in  my  anger  I 
spoke  it  out. ' ' 

Betty  smiled  superior. 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  it  was  an  unlucky 
day  when  you  ever  darkened  my  doors,  and  still  more 
when  you  were  betrothed  to  my  son,"  said  my 
aunt,  who  was  one  of  those  persons  that  say  first 
and  think  afterward. 

"  Oh,  mother  !"  said  Margaret.  Andrew  never 
spoke. 

"  Ay,  and  oh  mother  again  !"  retorted  my  aunt. 
"  I  say  it  was  an  unlucky  day,  and  I  u  -ill  say  so.  It 
is  she  who  has  led  my  child  astray  and  poisoned  her 
mind  with  her  play-books  and  her  fine  stories  of  Lon- 
don, to  an  innocent  country  maid  who  had  no  chance 
to  learn  aught  of  such  wickedness.  She  has  ruined 
my  Betty,  and  she  will  ruin  my  son." 

"Have  no  fears  for  your  son,  sister  Corbet," 
said  my  mother,  now  fully  roused.  "  The  engage- 
ment between  him  arid  my  daughter  is  from  this 


The  Chevalier  s   Daughter.          305 

moment  at  an  end.  I  leave  jour  house,  nor  will  T 
or  my  daughter  ever  again  enter  its  doors  till  you 
have  taken  hack  your  words.  Mr.  Lovel,  I  will 
thank  you  to  see  that  my  horse  and  servant  are  at 
the  door." 

Mr.  Lovel  obeyed  with  all  courtesy.  Andrew 
started  forward,  but  my  mother  rejected  his  hand 
with  a  stately  bow,  and  leaning  on  my  arm  she  left 
the  room.  Mr.  Lovel  assisted  us  both  to  mount — 
for  I  had  ridden  my  pony — and  proffered  his  ser- 
vices to  see  us  safe  home,  which  my  mother  de- 
clined. 

"  Not  a  word  was  spoken  on  the  way.  When 
we  arrived  I  would  have  entered  upon  the  subject, 
but  my  mother  declined  it. 

11  Not  at  present,  my  child.  Let  us  both  be  a 
Utle  cooler  before  we  talk  it  over.  My  poor  Ye- 
vette,  if  we  had  but  stayed  in  Jersey  !  'It  was  my 
self-willed  determination  to  come  hither  which  has 
brought  all  this  upon  you." 

"No,  mainan,  I  think  not  so,"  T  answered.  "If 
Andrew  hath  such  a  temper — so  jealous  and  dis- 
trustful— it  is  well  to  know  it  in  time.  But  who 
would  have  guessed  it  in  Normandy  ?" 

"  Who  indeed  !  But  there  was  nothing  to  bring 
it  out.  However,  we  will  talk  more  another  time." 

The  next  morning  Margaret  and  Rosamond  ap- 
peared early.  I  dreaded  meeting  them  ;  but  they 
both  kissed  me  cordially. 

"  We  do  not  suspect  you — neither  Rosamond  nor 
I,"  said  Meg.  "  Now  that  my  eyes  are  opened  I 


506  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

can  see  a  hundred  things  which  might  have  roused 
my  suspicions  with  regard  to  Betty,  if  I  had  not 
been  blind  as  an  owl.  As  to  Rosamond,  she  never 
sees  anything." 

"  But  I  did  see  something,  and  told  yoti  what  it 
was,  and  you  did  not  suspect  more  than  I,"  returned 
Rosamond.  u  Don't  you  remember  how  confused 
and  angry  Betty  was  ?" 

'•  But  how  is  it  to  end  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  they  are  to  be  married.  There  is  no  other 
way,  after  the  scandal  that  has  been  raised.  Just 
think  that  they  made  Lucy  Trehorn  their  go-be- 
tween, and  they  have  been  meeting  at  her  mother's 
cottage — the  old  witch  !" 

"  And  they  are  to  be  married  !"  said  my  mother. 
"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  the  only  way,  but  it  does  not 
seem  a  well-omened  beginning  of  married  life. 
When  is  the  wedding  to  be  ?" 

"  The  week  after  next.  My  mother  is  already 
consulting  with  Deborah  about  the  wedding-clothes 
and  so  on.  She  was  saying  this  morning  it  was  a 
pity  you  and  Andrew  should  not  be  married  at  the 
same  time,  since  she  has  linen  enough  ready  for 
both  of  you." 

"  She  can  give  it  all  to  Betty,"  said  I ;  "I  shall 
not  need  it." 

"  Are  you  really  in  earnest  ?"  said  Rosamond. 

u  I  am,"  I  answered  firmly.  The  girls  both 
looked  at  maman. 

"  Yes,  it  is  best  so,"  said  my  mother.  "  T  can- 
not give  my  child  to  one  who  could  have  her  accused 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  307 

as  Andrew  did  yesterday — nay,  who  could  himself 
put  her  on  the  defence,  as  if  she  were  the  culprit, 
and  never  say  a  word  in  her  behalf." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,  and  yet  I  am  sorry,"  said 
Meg.  "  I  think  Andrew  greatly  to  blame,  and  I 
believe  now  he  thinks  so  himself. " 

"  His  thoughts  come  rather  late,"  said  my 
mother.  "If  he  thinks  so,  why  does  he  not  say 
so  ?  But  we  will  not  discuss  the  matter.  So  Betty 
and  Mr.  Lovel  are  to  be  married.  Where  are  they 
to  live?" 

"  With  his  father  for  the  present,"  answered 
Margaret.  ' '  The  old  man  now  lives  quite  alone  in 
his  great  house  at  Allinstree,  and  I  believe  will  be 
glad  of  anything  which  will  keep  his  son  at  home. 
I  do  not  know  at  all  how  he  and  Betty  vill  agree, 
for  he  is  a  great  Puritan." 

"  Oh,  they  will  agree  well  enough  so  long  as 
Betty  has  anything  to  gain,"  said  I,  and  then  recol- 
lecting myself,  as  I  saw  my  mother  look  at  me,  "  I 
crave  your  pardon,  Meg.  I  should  remember  that 
she  is  your  sister. ' ' 

"  She  is  no  sister  of  mine,"  said  Margaret.  "  I 
will  never  own  her  as  such  again.  She  has  dis- 
graced us  all." 

"  She  is  your  sister,  and  you  cannot  help  it," 
said  Rosamond,  in  that  trenchant  fashion  of  hers. 
' '  You  cannot  reverse  the  decrees  of  Heaven  because 
you  are  displeased.  Betty  hath  acted  a  base, 
treacherous  part  toward  us  all,  and  especially  toward 


30^  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

Vevette,  but  still  she  is  our  sister,  and  as  such  we 
must  needs  treat  her." 

"  Very  true,  Rosamond,"  said  my  mother. 
"  Betty  hath  cruelly  injured  me  and  mine  as  well 
as  you,  her  sisters,  hut  we  must  try  to  forgive  her. ' ' 

Margaret  was  silent,  but  I  saAV  in  her  face  the 
hard  expression  I  knew  so  well  in  Andrew's.  I 
suppose  my  mother  thought  there  was  no  use  in 
argument,  for  after  a  moment's  silence  she  began 
to  talk  of  somewhat  else,  and  then  she  proposed  that 
we  should  have  a  music  lesson  to  quiet  our  spirits. 
The  girls  agreed,  and  we  got  out  our  music  and 
sang  several  hymns  and  songs,  and  practised  some 
new  chants  and  anthems  which  my  mother  had  got 
in  a  parcel  from  London.  For  my  Uncle  Charles 
and  Aunt  Jem  still  continued  their  kindness  toward 
us,  though  they  were  a  little  vexed  that  my  mother 
should  have  refused  their  offer,  and  only  a  few  days 
before  we  had  received  from  them  a  great  parcel 
containing  books,  music,  tea  and  coffee  and  choco- 
late, and  I  know  not  what  pretty  trinkets  and  laces  for 
me.  Then,  when  we  were  in  rather  a  better  frame, 
my  mother  talked  to  us  in  her  gentle,  serious  way 
of  those  consolations  which  were  so  dear  to  her  own 
heart,  and  of  that  inward  experience  of  the  presence 
and  the  love  of  the  dear  Lord  which  was  able  to 
support  and  console  under  all  trials.  Rosamond 
drank  in  the  discourse  like  water,  but  1  could  see 
that  Meg  was  impatient  under  it.  The  truth  was 
that  her  religion  at  that  time  was  all  outward — a 
matter  of  forms  and  ceremonies,  of  fasts  and  feasts. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          309 

She  made  a  merit  of  always  using  tlie  right  collect 
on  tlie  right  day,  and  never  reading  the  Psalms  but 
in  their  appointed  order  ;  but  to  tlie  spiritual  treas- 
ures concealed  in  those  Psalms  and  collects  her 
eyes  were  not  at  that  time  opened.  This  she  has 
since  told  me  herself. 

That  evening  Andrew  came  down  to  our  house 
and  had  a  long  audience  with  my  mother.  I  did 
not  see  him,  but  maman  told  me  tlie  substance  of 
the  conversation.  He  wished  to  renew  the  engage- 
ment, and  have  thiny.  placed  upon  their  former 
footing,  but  this  my  mother  positively  refused. 
Andrew  begged  to  see  me,  and  my  mother  came  to 
tell  me  so,  but  I  would  not  go  down. 

"  I  cannot  see  him  now.  Perhaps  I  may  after  a 
time,  but  at  present  it  is  impossible.  Tell  him  that 
I  agree  to  all  you  have  said,  but  I  cannot  see  him." 

"  I  do  not  myself  think  it  best,"  said  my  mother. 
"  Let  matters  rest  for  the  present."  So  Andrew 
went  away  and  I  did  not  see  him. 

Looking  back  at  this  time,  1  must  say  I  think  I 
behaved  pretty  well.  I  was  as  nearly  broken-heart- 
ed as  any  poor  girl  ever  was,  but  I  strove  against 
my  sorrow,  and  tried  in  every  way  to  keep  myself 
occupied  that  I  need  not  have  time  to  brood.  I 
had  very  bitter  thoughts  of  Andrew,  of  his  family, 
and  even  of  Providence  itself, .but  I  did  strive 
against  them.  I  went  to  my  school,  and  to  Mar- 
garet's also  twice  in  the  week,  for  she  could  not 
quite  manage  the  knitting,  though  she  was  improv- 
ing. I  read  to  poor  Lois,  and  to  an  old  blind  sailor 


310  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

who  lived  in  one  of  the  cottages,  and  in  every  way 
strove  to  keep  my  thoughts  occupied.  My  mother 
was  all  judicious  kindness,  knowing  just  when  to  help 
and  when  to  let  me  alone  ;  but  with  all  my  efforts 
and  helps  I  passed  many  sad  hours.  I  used  to  go 
constantly  to  church,  and  found  comfort  therein  ; 
but  oh,  how  I  wished  for  one  of  our  old  pastors,  to 
whom  I  might  open  my  heart !  Mr.  Dobson  made 
a  conscience  of  having  daily  prayers  in  the  church, 
and  of  reading  one  sermon  of  a  Sunday  ;  but  aside 
from  that  he  gave  no  more  heed  to  his  parish  than 
he  did  to — the  moon,  I  was  going  to  say  ;  but  in- 
deed he  took  much  more  interest  in  the  moon  than 
he  did  in  his  next-door  neighbors.  He  was  wrapped 
up  in  his  studies — chemistry,  or  rather  alchemy,  as 
I  fancy,  astronomy,  and  physics.  He  was  looked 
upon  with  the  greatest  awe  by  the  country  people, 
as  one  who  had  powers  over  the  unseen  world,  and 
I  doubt  not  he  himself  fully  believed  in  these 
powers. 

Before  the  wedding  we  had  another  guest — none 
&  the  r  than  our  cousin  Lord  Stan  toun,  from  Stantoun 
Court,  in  Devonshire.  We  had  the  first  news  of  his 
approach  from  a  riding  servant  whom  he  sent  on 
before  him.  My  mother,  of  course,  at  once  sent  up 
word  to  the  great  house,  and  presently  we  were  sur- 
prised by  a  visit  from  my  aunt,  who  came  down  to 
hear  further  particulars,  and  to  ask  advice  as  to  how 
she  should  receive  the  great  man.  She  came  in  and 
greeted  my  mother  and  me  just  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  for  she  was  always  one  of  those  people 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  31  I 

who  forget  their  own  hard  words  as  soon  as  they  are 
spoken,  and  wonder  that  any  one  else  should  remem- 
ber them. 

"  Well,  and  so  my  lord  is  really  going  to  honor  us 
with  a  visit,"  said  she,  when  she  had  praised  my 
work  and  admired  the  cosiness  of  the  house.  "  'Tis 
.in  honor,  no  doubt,  but  one  I  would  dispense  with 
just  now  that  I  have  so  much  on  my  hands." 

u  I  believe  my  lord  intends  to  lodge  here,"  said 
my  mother.  "  I  gathered  as  much  from  his  let- 
ter." 

u  Here  !"  said  my  aunt,  staring,  as  was  her  way. 
"  Why,  how  will  you  put  him  up  or  entertain  him 
or  his  retinue  ?' ' 

"  As  to  putting  him  up,  we  have  plenty  of  spare 
chambers,  and,  thanks  to  your  kindness,  abundance 
of  linen  and  the  like.  As  to  entertainment,  he 
will  be  content,  I  dare  say,  to  fare  as  we  do.  As 
to  his  retinue,  he  has  with  him  but  two  men-ser- 
vants, who  will  lodge  in  the  cottage." 

"  Well,  I  don't  envy  you  your  trouble,"  said  my 
aunt.  ' '  I  am  sure  you  are  welcome.  Will  he  stay 
to  the  wedding,  think  you  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  he  will  if  he  is  asked,"  replied  my 
mother.  "  He  was  always  a  well-natured  gentle- 
man." 

"  Now  if  you  would  only  let  Vevette  be  married 
at  the  same  time,  what  a  fine  wedding  we  should 
have  !  She  is  young,  to  be  sure,  but — ' '  and  here 
she  stopped,  arrested  by  something  in  my  mother's 
face. 


312  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

11  Have  you  already  forgotten,  sister  Corbet, 
how  you  said  before  your  whole  family  that  it  was 
an  ill  day  when  my  daughter  darkened  your  doors 
— how  you  declared  that  she  would  ruin  your  son  as 
she  had  ruined  your  daughter  ?"  asked  my  mother. 

"  But  I  was  angry  then,"  answered  my  aunt. 
"I  did  not  mean  half  I  said.  Sure  you  won't 
break  off  with  my  poor  son  on  that  account.  Why, 
he  loves  Vevette  as  the  apple  of  his  eye." 

"  He  took  a  strange  way  to  show  it,  I  must  needs 
say,"  returned  my  mother.  "No,  Amy,  for  the 
present  any  engagement  between  them  is  at  an  end. 
Should  he  wish  to  renew  his  suit  when  he  returns 
he  can  do  so,  but  meantime  my  daughter  is  quite  at 
liberty." 

My  aunt  remonstrated,  and  even  cried,  but  my 
mother  was  firm,  and  when  my  aunt  appealed  to 
ine  I  seconded  her. 

"  Well,  well,  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  saying 
more,"  said  my  aunt,  wiping  her  eyes.  *'  Let  us 
hope  all  will  yet  turn  out  well.  I  only  wish  my 
Betty  were  half  as  docile  as  Vevette,  though  I  can't 
think  it  was  right ;  however,  we  will  let  by-gones  be 
by-goncs."  And  she  began  asking  my  mother's 
advice  about  certain  details  of  the  wedding — advice 
which  she  gave  very  readily,  for  she  had  no  mind 
to  keep  up  a  quarrel. 

11  And  you  won't  tell  my  lord  of  all  poor  Betty's 
misbehavior,  will  you  ?"  said  my  aunt  as  she  rose 
to  go.  "  It  would  be  such  a  disadvantage  to  her." 

"  Certainly  not  ;   why  should  I  ?"    returned   my 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          313 

mother.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  injure  Betty,  and  I 
am  not  given  to  spreading  tales  of  scandal,  whether 
true  or  false." 

"  I  am  sure  that  is  true,  and  I  only  wish  my 
tongue  were  as  well  governed  as  yours.  And  you 
won't  mention  the  matter  to  my  lord  ?" 

My  mother  promised  again,  and  my  aunt  went 
away  content.  I  may  as  well  say  that  my  lord  had 
not  been  an  hour  in  our  house  before  she  had  told 
him  the  whole  story  herself. 

My  lord  came  that  evening  and  took  up  his 
abode  with  us.  lie  was  a  fine,  courtly  gentleman, 
with  something  about  him  that  reminded  me  of  my 
father,  though  he  was  much  older,  and  was  indeed 
an  old  man.  He  greeted  my  mother  in  brotherly 
fashion,  and  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks,  with  a  com- 
pliment to  my  good  looks,  such  as  old  gentlemen 
give  to  young  ladies  as  a  matter  of  course.  He 
expressed  himself  as  delighted  with  the  house  and 
his  accommodations,  and  we  found  him  a  most 
agreeable  guest.  He  had  come  mostly  upon  busi- 
ness with  my  mother,  concerning  the  estate  I  have 
mentioned.  It  seems  this  estate  lay  like  a  wedge 
between  two  farms  of  his  own,  and  he  wished  to 
make  some  sort  of  exchange  with  my  mother  ;  but 
as  he  would  not  have  her  act  in  the  dark  he 
brought  my  mother  and  myself  an  invitation,  warmly 
seconded  by  a  most  kind  note  from  my  lady,  to 
make  him  a  visit  at  Stantoun  Court,  which  invita- 
tion my  mother,  after  some  consideration,  accepted. 
She  thought  the  change  would  be  good  for  me,  and 


314  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

I  believe  also  she  wished  to  make  friends  for  mo  in 
my  lord's  family.  My  lord  also  brought  us  some 
three  hundred  ponnds  in  ready  money,  which  was  a 
very  welcome  supply. 

Meg  and  Rosamond  were  in  despair  at  our  going 
away.  My  aunt  alternately  rejoiced  in  onr  good 
fortune  and  lamented  my  obstinacy  in  not  accom- 
modating matters  with  Andrew — an  obstinacy  which 
both  she  and  Betty  laid  to  the  account  of  onr  in- 
creased riches,  which  had  as  much  to  do  with  it  as 
the  flight  of  the  birds.  Betty  was  quite  herself 
again,  demure  and  graceful,  satisfied  with  herself 
and  her  lover.  She  fished  hard  for  an  invitation  to 
Stantoun  for  herself  and  Mr.  Lovel,  but  without 
success. 

"No,  I  will  not  have  them,"  was  my  lord's 
comment  to  my  mother.  "  He  is  a  fool,  and  she  is, 
above  all  others,  the  kind  of  girl  I  hate — so  sly  and 
silky.  The  others  are  nice  maids  enough,  but  I 
will  have  none  of  Betty." 

However,  he  made  Betty  a  present,  and  was  very 
agreeable  at  the  wedding,  which  we  all  attended.  I 
would  have  given  a  great  deal  .to  stay  away,  but  my 
pride  would  not  let  me  :  so  I  went.  All  went  off 
very  well,  only  that  Mr.  Dobson,  in  his  absent-mind- 
edness, said  in  the  ceremony,  "  That  which  God 
hath  put  asunder,  let  no  man  join  together,"  which 
methought  was  an  ill  omen.  But,  indeed,  it  was 
but  an  ill-omened  affair  from  first  to  last.  Betty 
looked  very  handsome  I  must  say,  and  so  did  her 
bridegroom.  Rosamond  was  glum  and  Margaret 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          3  i  5 

ill  at  ease,  while  Andrew  was  cold,  black,  and  stiff 
as  one  of  the  stone  pillars  out  on  the  moor.  My 
aunt,  on  the  contrary,  was  as  easy  and  as  much 
pleased  as  if  everything  had  come  about  in  the  best 
manner  possible.  But  for  her  and  for  my  lord,  who 
exerted  himself  in  the  most  amiable  way,  it  would 
have  been  a  sour  wedding-party. 

The  next  day  Andrew  again  came  to  see  my 
mother,  and  to  beg  a  renewal  of  the  engagement . 
He  had  talked  with  Mr.  Lovel,  now  that  they  were 
upon  more  friendly  terms,  and  Mr.  Lovel  had  quite 
exculpated  me  from  any  knowledge  of  or  part  in  his 
affairs  arid  Betty's,  saying  with  his  easy  laugh  that 
he  had  only  confirmed  Betty's  words  because  he 
would  not  see  the  lady  he  loved  put  down.  Andrew 
was  most  earnest  with  my  mother  to  overlook  his 
p~st  conduct,  which  he  now  confessed  to  be  faulty, 
and  to  let  him  begin  again. 

"  Ko,  my  fair  sou,"  said  maman  ;  "it  would 
not  be  best.  I  can  never  forget  what  we  owe  you 
and  yours  ;  but  my  gratitude  must  be  shown  in 
some  other  way  than  by  giving  you  my  child  under 
present  circumstances.  She  is  not  to  be  thrown 
away  and  picked  up  again  like  a  toy,  to  be  cast 
down  again  the  moment  you  see  or  fancy  a  flaw  in 
her.  You  say  this  is  your  last  voyage.  When  you 
return,  if  Vevette  is  still  free  and  you  choose  to 
make  your  addresses  to  her,  well  and  good,  but  for 
the  present  matters  must  remain  as  they  are." 

Then  Andrew  begged  my  lord's  intercession,  but 
my  lord,  when  he  heard  the  story,  declared  my 


316  The  Chevaliers  Daughter, 

mother  was  right,  and  that  he  would  do  the  same 
in  her  place. 

"  What  !  would  you  see  the  lady  you  loved  so 
accused,  and  never  so  much  as  take  her  part — never 
say  a  word  for  her  ?  I  vow  and  declare,  I  like 
Level's  way  the  better  of  the  two.  No,  no,  wait, 
and  learn  the  worth  of  a  fine  young  lady.1' 

Then  Andrew  watched  and  met  me  on  my  way 
home  from  the  school,  and  pleaded  his  own  cause. 
But  maman  had  laid  her  commands  upon  me,  and  I 
was  bound  to  obey  them.  I  did  not  deny  that  I 
loved  him,  and  he  would  have  drawn  from  me  a 
promise  not  to  marry  any  one  else. 

"  I  cannot  give  such  a  promise,"  said  I.  "It 
would  be  '"he  same  as  an  engagement,  which  my 
mother  has  forbidden  ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall 
never  wish  to  wed  any  one." 

"  So  you  say  now  ;  but  how  will  it  be  when  you 
are  among  the  gay  gallants  of  Stantoun  Court  ?"  said 
Andrew.  ' '  Confess,  now  ;  has  not  the  prospect  of 
shining  there  some  share  in  your  decision  ?" 

"Why,  there  it  is  again  !"  I  returned.  "You 
beg  my  pardon  for  one  false  suspicion,  and  the  very 
next  moment  you  begin  on  another.  You  cannot 
trust  me,  and  how  should  I  ever  trust  you  ?  If  we 
were  to  be  married  before  you  go  away,  you  would 
always  be  wondering  whether  I  were  not  somehow 
wronging  you.  No,  no,  Andrew.  Let  things  be 
as  they  are  at  present.  It  is  the  best  way,  though 
it  is  hard." 

And  with  that  I  fell  to  weeping,  and  he  to  try  to 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          317 

comfort  me  alternately  with  accusing  himself  of  all 
the  meanness  in  the  world,  and  with  having  thrown 
away  his  happiness  and  mine  ;  so  that  at  the  last  I 
was  fain  to  turn  comforter  myself.  At  last  we 
agreed  to  abide  by  my  mother's  decision.  We  ex- 
changed gifts  :  Andrew  gave  me  his  seal  ring  which 
he  had  had  cut  at  Jerusalem  with  the  Hebrew  word 
Mispeh — 

"  For  he  said,   *  The  Lord  watch  between  thee 
and  me  when  we  are  absent  one  from  the  other,'  ' 
said  he  solemnly  ;  and  surely  the  prayer  was  heard. 

I  gave  him  a  little  gold  locket  I  had  always  worn, 
with  the  gold  chain  which  sustained  it,  and  he  put 
it  round  his  neck,  saying  it  should  never  leave  him. 
Indeed  he  wears  it  to  this  day. 

For  two  or  three  days  we  were  very  busy  arrang- 
ing for  our  departure.  My  mother  had  insisted  on 
giving  full  value  for  the  house  and  land,  which  my 
lord  approved  as  a  good  investment,  and — what  I 
think  made  Andrew  feel  more  than  ever  what  he 
had  done — on  paying  for  the  horses  and  cows  he 
had  provided  for  us.  Dinah  was  to  go  with  us  as 
waiting-woman.  Jeanne  and  Simon  were  to  live  in 
the  house,  take  care  of  it  and  the  garden,  and  have 
all  in  readiness  for  our  return.  We  looked  forward 
at  that  time  to  living  at  the  Well  House  for  many 
years,  my  mother's  health  being  to  all  appearance 
quite  restored,  and  Aunt  Amy  very  desirous  of 
having  us  for  neighbors.  She  did  truly  love  both 
my  mother  and  me  in  her  way,  and  she  had  sense 


318  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

enough  to  value  what  my  mother  was  doing  for 
Meg  and  Rosamond. 

All  was  done  at  last,  and  we  bade  farewell  with 
all  the  kindness  in  the  world.  Betty  was  not  there, 
having  gone  with  her1  husband  to  Allinstree.  "We 
set  out  in  pleasant  weather,  and  arrived  safely  at  our 
journey's  end. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

STANTOUN    COURT. 

TANTOUN"  COURT  was  and  is  a  magnifi- 
cent pile  of  building.  The  oldest  part,  a 
great  grim  tower,  was  built  about  the  time 
of  the  Conqueror — or  such,  at  least,  is  the 
family  tradition — but  the  main  building,  and  that 
which  gives  character  to  the  whole,  belongs  to  the 
early  days  of  Elizabeth.  The  fact  that  the  same 
material — a  warmly  tinted  red  stone — is  used 
throughout  gives  a  kind  of  unity  to  the  whole. 
The  gardens  have  always  been  very  fine,  being  en- 
riched, like  ours  at  Tre  Madoc,  with  all  sorts  of 
exotic  trees  and  plants,  brought  home  from  foreign 
parts  by  those  wandering  Corbets.  There  is  also  an 
orangery  and  green-house,  which  at  that  time  had 
been  but  lately  erected,  and  was  a  special  hobby  of 
my  lady's. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  company  staying  in  the 
house,  for  my  lord  was  fond  of  society,  and  made 
his  two  step-daughters  an  excuse  for  filling  his  house 
with  young  men.  Martha,  the  elder,  was  already 
engaged,  and  was  to  be  married  before  long.  We 


320  T/ie  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

were  warmly  welcomed  by  my  lady,  a  kind  and 
motherly  woman,  and  by  Theo,  her  second  daugh- 
ter. Mrs.  Martha  was  just  decently  civil,  and  that 
was  all.  She  looked  at  every  one  as  if  she  were 
mentally  taking  their  measure.  I  took  a  dislike  to 
her  from  the  first  moment  I  ever  saw  her,  and  I 
have  never  seen  occasion  to  change  my  mind. 

We  had  a  delightful  apartment  assigned  to  us — 
a  large,  airy  room,  with  an  adjacent  sitting-room,  all 
prettily  fitted  up,  for  my  mother,  and  a  turret- room 
near  by  for  me.  My  lady  made  an  excuse  for  giv- 
ing me  so  small  a  lodging,  saying  that  some  of  the 
bedrooms  were  being  refitted  in  preparation  for  her 
daughter's  marriage.  "  Pray  make  no  excuses," 
said  my  mother.  "  I  venture  to  say  this  is  just  the 
sort  of  room  my  daughter  would  choose." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  I  added,  as  my  lady  turned  to 
me  ;  "I  love  a  turret-room  above  all  things." 

"  Then  we  are  alt  suited,"  said  my  lady  kindly  ; 
"  but  you  are  not  looking  quite  well,  sweetheart." 

I  assured  her  that  I  was  well  and  only  tired  with 
my  journey,  and  so  with  more  kind  words  she  left 
us  to  ourselves.  We  unpacked  our  mails  and 
dressed  ourselves,  arid  then  at  the  summons  of  a 
waiting-gentlewoman,  we  descended  to  the  with- 
drawing-room,  my  mother  having  first  recommend- 
ed Dinah  to  the  attention  of  this  same  gentlewoman, 
who  said  she  would  show  her  to  the. room  of  Mrs. 
Carey,  the  housekeeper. 

"  And  is  Mrs.  Carey  still  living  ?"  asked  my 
mother,  "  She  must  be  very  old." 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.         321 

"  She  is  so,  madame,"  answered  the  waiting- 
damsel  ;  "  but  she  is  still  hale  and  active,  and  does 
all  the  work  my  lady  will  allow.  This  way, 
madame,  if  yon  please." 

She  conducted  us  to  the  open  door  of  my  lady's 
withdrawing-room,  which  was  very  splendidly  fitted 
up— quite  as  fine  as  anything  I  had  seen  in  London 
— and  now  filled  with  company.  "We  were  led  into 
the  room  by  my  lord  himself,  who  espied  us  in  a 
moment,  and  placed  in  seats  of  honor.  Indeed,  both 
he  and  my  lady  seemed  to  think  they  could  not 
show  my  mother  too  much  respect.  A  great  many 
people  were  presented  to  us,  among  them  Mrs.  Mar- 
tha's  servant  Captain  Bernard,  a  fine  young  gentle- 
man, with  a  good,  serious,  kindly  face.  The  young 
ladies  presently  made  their  appearance,  to  be  chid 
by  their  mother  for  their  delay,  to  which  Mrs.  Theo 
returned  a  smiling  excuse,  and  Mrs.  Martha  none  at 
all.  There  were  several  ladies  and  gentlemen 
present  from  the  neighborhood,  some  of  whom  my 
mother  had  formerly  known,  and  we  were  for 
a  while  quite  the  centre  of  attraction,  a  condition  of 
things  which  did  not  seern  to  please  Mrs.  Martha  at 
all,  to  judge  by  her  black  looks.  She  would  hardly 
even  give  a  civil  answer  to  poor  Captain  Bernard 
when  he  addressed  her,  and  as  I  looked  at  her  I 
wondered  what  he  could  have  seen  in  her  to  wish 
to  make  her  his  wife.  But  I  found  out  long  ago 
that  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  account  for  such 
matters.  Mrs.  Theo  was  pleased  with  everything 
and  everybody,  herself  included.  She  was  uncom- 


322  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

monly  pretty,  and  dressed  herself  with  great  taste. 
She  was  not  very  deep,  but  what  there  was  of  her 
was  good  and  sweet,  and  she  was  always  kind,  even 
to  self-sacrifice  when  needful.  She  did  not  care 
for  study,  and  had  no  special  tastes  for  anything 
but  embroidery,  in  which,  indeed,  she  excelled  any 
person  I  ever  saw.  We  were  soon  the  best  of 
friends,  and  have  always  remained  so. 

The  evening  passed  pleasantly  enough,  what  with 
music  and  conversation,  cards  and  tables  for  the 
elders,  and  a  little  dance  among  the  young  folks.  I 
had  never  learned  any  dances  except  those  of  the 
peasant  folks  in  Normandy,  and  at  present  I  was  in 
no  spirits  for  any  such  amusement,  but  I  exerted 
myself  to  sing  and  play,  and  though  a  good  deal 
confused,  I  believe  I  acquitted  myself  fairly. 
"When  we  returned  to  our  room  \ve  found  Mrs. 
Dinah  well  pleased  with  the  manner  in  which  she 
had  been  treated  by  Mrs.  Carey,  but  full  of  right- 
eous indignation  at  the  light  conduct  of  the  gentle- 
men's gentlemen,  one  of  whom,  it  seems,  had  actu- 
ally offered  to  kiss  her.  My  mother  soothed  and 
comforted  her,  and  told  her  she  had  better  sit  in 
our  room  or  else  with  Mrs.  Carey,  and  then  she 
would  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  men  servants. 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  all  alike,  madame,"  answered 
Dinah  quickly.  "  There  is  the  steward,  Mr.  Mat- 
teson,  who  is  as  sober  and  well  conducted  a  man  as 
any  one  would  wish  to  see." 

"  Well,  well,  T  am  glad  there  is  one  exception  to 
the  rule,"  said  my  mother.  "  Now  we  will  have 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter.          323 

our  reading  and  go  quickly  to  rest,  for  I  ain  very 
tired,  and  my  head  is  quite  in  a  whirl.  It  is  long 
since  I  have  spent  so  gay  an  evening.1' 

For  two  or  three  days  my  mother  was  quite  un- 
well, and  I  was  of  course  with  her  most  of  the 
time,  though  I  went  out  to  walk  two  or  three  times 
with  Mrs.  Theo,  who  also  showed  me  the  house 
and  pictures,  which  were  very  fine.  As  to  Mrs. 
Martha,  she  never  troubled  herself  about  me  in  any 
way,  and  that  was  all  I  asked  of  her. 

"  You  must  not  mind  Martha,"  said  Theo  to  me 
one  day,  when  she  had  very  shortly  declined  an  in- 
vitation to  walk  with  us.  "  She  goes  on  her  own 
way  for  all  any  one  else,  and  she  is  always  busy." 

"  What  does  she  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  she  reads  a  great  deal,  especially  in 
divinity,  and  she  sews  for  the  poor  and  visits  them 
very  often.  She  does  twice  as  much  for  them  as  I 
do,  and  yet  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  they  are  always 
glad  to  see  mother  and  me,  and  they  do  not  seem 
ever  pleased  to  see  her.  I  think  sometimes  they  do 
not  like  so  much  advice.  Do  you  not  think  that 
may  be  it  ?' '  she  asked,  raising  her  pretty  eyebrows, 
and  looking  at  me  reflectively. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  I,  with  a  smile,  for  I  was 
much  amused.  "  Then  you  do  not  give  them  ad- 
vice ?" 

"  I,  Cousin  Vevette  ?"  with  an  air  of  great  aston- 
ishment. "  How  could  I  do  that  ?  I  do  riot  know 
half  as  much  as  they  do.  Why,  what  advice  could 
1  give  those  poor  women  about  their  households 


324  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

and  their  children,  when  I  never  brought  up  a 
child  or  cooked  a  dinner  in  all  my  life  ?  I  do  some- 
times just  hint  to  them  about  washing  a  babe's  face 
clean  or  mending  its  hose,  but  just  in  a  pleasant 
talking  kind  of  way.  you  know.  And  I  must  say 
they  are  usually  ready  to  listen.  But  I  never  could 
go  into  their  houses  when  they  are  at  meals  and  re- 
mark upon  their  waste  in  eating  fresh  butter,  or 
anything  like  that.  Why,  I  should  not  like  it  my- 
self, would  you  ?" 

"  Decidedly  not  !"  I  answered.  "  But  I  think 
it  is  pleasant  to  drop  into  cottages  and  talk  with 
the  women  when  they  are  at  leisure,  and  play  with 
the  babes,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  to  make  christening  frocks  for 
them,  and  the  like.  Come,  we-  wil]  go  and  see  the 
old  folks  at  the  almshouses." 

"We  spent  three  or  four  weeks  very  pleasantly  at 
Stantoun  Court.  My  lord  was  fond  of  music,  and 
took  much  pleasure  in  our  singing  and  playing. 
My  mother  excused  herself  from  returning  visits,  as 
her  health  was  so  delicate,  but  she  was  always  in 
the  parlor  of  an  evening  to  help  my  lady  in  enter- 
taining her  guests.  I  soon  came  to  enjoy  these 
evenings  very  much,  nor  was  I  at  all  averse  to  the 
attentions  1  received  from  my  lord's  young  visitors. 
I  had  one  letter  from  Andrew,  written  from  Ply 
mouth  before  he  sailed.  He  told  me  he  had  hoped 
to  bid  me  farewell  in  person,  but  that  had  been  made 
impossible.  His  ship  was  to  go  up  to  Chatham, 'aud 
he  would  write  from  thence  so  soon  as  he  knew  his 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.  325 

destination  ;  but  lie  believed  that  lie  should  go  to 
the  West  and  not  to  the  East  Indies  after  all. 

I  shed  many  tears  over  this  letter,  which  was  as 
kind  and  tender  as  possible,  and  as  my  lord  was 
sending  post  to  London,  I  answered  it  with  my 
mother's  permission,  and  sent  Andrew  a  watch- 
chain  which  I  hud  learned  to  make  from  gold  cord. 
Long  afterward  I  heard  that  he  had  written  again, 
but  I  never  received  the  letter. 

My  mother  concluded  her  business  with  my  lord, 
greatly  to  the  satisfaction,  and  I  believe  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  both  parties,  since  the  property  she 
took  in  exchange  was  more  immediately  productive, 
and  more  convenient  for  a  woman  to  hold.  One 
morning  after  a  long  private  conference  with  our 
host  and  hostess,  my  mother  told  me  that  she  had 
made  Lord  Stanton  my  guardian  in  case  of  her 
dying  before  1  was  settled  in  life. 

"  Dear  maman,  do  not  speak  of  dying,"  said  I. 
"  You  are  looking  so  well." 

"  And  I  am  well — better  than  I  ever  expected  to 
1)0,"  she  answered  me  ;  "  but  no  one  knows  what 
may  happen,  and  I  shall  not  die  the  sooner  for  hav- 
ing settled  my  affairs.  My  lord  and  lady  are  good 
people,  and  will  do  well  by  you." 

I  was  well  content  with  the  arrangement,  for  I 
liked  both  my  lord  and  my  lady.  The  latter  was  one 
of  the  most  evenly  good  women  I  ever  saw.  She 
was  not  one  who  ever  made  great  demonstrations  of 
affection  even  to  her  own  children,  but  she  was 
almost  always  the  same.  As  Dinah  said,  one  always 


326  The  Chevaliers  Daiighter. 

knew  where  to  have  her.  My  lord  was  somewhat 
choleric,  and  had  a  knack  of  exasperating  himself 
over  trifles  which  sometimes  made  one  ashamed  for 
him  ;  but  still  he  was  a  fine,  good-natured  gentle- 
man, who  would  have  died  before  he  would  do  a 
mean  or  cruel  action,  and  his  manners  were  perfect, 
specially  to  women.  I  never  saw  him  speak  even  to 
a  maid  servant  without  lifting  his  hat.  He  was 
greatly  annoyed  by  the  freedom  taken  by  some  of 
his  young  gentlemen  visitors  with  the  village  maids 
and  the  servants  ;  and  when  one  of  these  fine  sparks 
came  to  complain  of  a  ducking  in  the  sea  which  he 
got  from  one  of  the  Lees  "  down  to  Cove"  for  mak- 
ing too  free  with  his  young  wife,  my  lord  said 
bluntly  it  served  him  right,  and  he  would  have  done 
the  same  if  he  had  been  there.  The  youth  blus- 
tered, and  I  believe  would  have  challenged  my  lord, 
but  thought  better  of  it  and  took  himself  away. 

But  a  great  sorrow  was  hanging  over  my  head, 
though  I  never  suspected  it.  My  mother's  health 
had  wonderfully  improved  of  late,  and  there  seemed 
no  reason  why  she  should  not  live  out  the  usual 
term  of  years.  She  told  me  one  evening  that  she 
had  not  felt  so  well  in  all  respects  since  she  was  a 
young  girl. 

"  It  is  not  only  in  bodily  health,"  said  she,  "  but 
I  am  sensible  of  a  greafr  improvement  in  ray  spirits 
— not  elation  exactly,  but  a  kind  of  joyfulness  as  if 
I  were  in  certain  expectation  of  good  news,  and  1 
constantly  dream  of  your  father  and  of  our  old 
home  in  France  which  I  have  never  done  before." 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          327 

I  saw  Mrs.  Dinah  shake  her  head  and  look  grave 
upon  this,  but  I  knew  she  had  her  full  share  of 
Cornish  superstitions.  I  myself  thought  the  im- 
provement in  my  mother's  health  and  spirits  arose 
from  the  change  of  air  and  scene,  and  from  the 
enjoyment  of  cheerful  company.  I  little  thought 
what  was  that  joyful  news  she  was  soon  to  hear — 
joyful  to  her,  but  sad  beyond  conception  to  me. 

The  very  next  morning,  as  I  was  finishing  dress- 
ing, Dinah  came  to  me,  quite  calm  as  usual,  but 
pale  as  ashes. 

"  "Will  you  come  to  your  mother  at  once  ?"  said 
she.  "  She  is  very  ill." 

I  did  not  need  a  second  summons.  My  mother 
lay  in  her  bed,  her  eyes  closed,  breathing  in  soft 
sighs,  and  only  at  long  intervals.  My  lady  was 
already  with  her,  applying  salts  to  her  nose  and 
strong  essences  to  her  forehead,  while  old  Mrs. 
Carey  was  rubbing  the  soles  of  her  feet.  They 
made  way  for  me  with  looks  of  solemn  compassion. 
Even  then  1  was  not  alarmed. 

"  It  is  a  fainting  fit,"  said  I.  "She  used  to 
have  them  in  France."  I  bent  over  and  kissed 
her,  calling  upon  her  name.  She  opened  her  eyes 
with  a  look  of  unutterable  tenderness,  and  her  lips 
moved.  Then  she  drew  one  more  sigh  and  all  was 
still. 

"  Come  away,  my  dear  child,"  said  my  lady,  dis- 
engaging my  hand  from  my  mother's  and  taking  it 
in  her  own.  "  Your  dear  mother  is  at  rest." 

Even  then  I  could  not  believe  it,  and  I  would 


328  The  Chevalier's   Daughter. 

have  them  try  again  and  again  to  revive  her,  but 
soon  the  deathly  chill  of  the  hand  and  brow  and  the 
white  lips  convinced  even  me,  and  I  suffered  my 
lady  to  lead  me  away. 

The}T  were  all  very  kind.  My  lady  took  me  to 
her  dressing-room,  and  strove  to  win  me  to  tears, 
for  I  was  at  first  like  one  ptunned.  At  last  Theo's 
tearful  caresses  opened  the  flood-gates,  and  i  wept 
myself  into  quietness.  N.y  lady  left  me  to  myself 
as  much  as  was  good  for  me,  and  no  more.  Mr. 
Penrose,  the  rector,  came  and  prayed  with  me,  and 
as  I  was  able  to  bear  it,  he  talked  with  me  in  a  gen- 
tle and  consoling  way,  which  did  me  all  the  good  in 
the  world.  He  was  a  dry-looking,  quiet  elderly 
man,  a  native  of  Cornwall,  and  had  remained  in  his 
parish  through  all  the  troubles  and  changes  of  the 
civil  wars.  My  lord  was  greatly  attached  to  him, 
though  he  thought  him  needlessly  strict  in  some 
matters.  He  was  a  fine  scholar,  and  the  best 
preacher  I  had  heard  since  1  left  France. 

My  mother  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  the 
old  priory  church  among  our  ancestors  for  many 
generations.  It  was  a  lovely  place,  all  green  and 
fair  with  grass  and  great  trees,  and  luxuriant  ivy 
mantling  the  old  nuns.  Oh,  how  I  wept  as  I 
thought  of  my  father's  dishonored  grave.  How  I 
wished  they  could  have  slept  together  !  But  it  was 
an  idle  wish.  What  signifies  what  distance  divides 
our  worn-out  bodies,  if  only  our  better  part — our 
real  selves — are  resting  together  in  the  Paradise  of 
God? 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          329 

Of  course  word  was  sent  to  the  friends  at  Tre 
Madoc,  and  I  received  a  most  kind  letter  from  my 
aunt,  asking  me  to  make  her  house  my  home.  The 
invitation  was  warmly  seconded  by  the  girls,  but 
my  lorL  and  lady  would  have  me  stay  with  them 
for  the  present,  and  indeed  it  was  my  own  desire. 
I  did  not  feel  that  I  could  return  to  Tre  Madoc 
where  all  was  so  changed,  nor,  knowing  my  aunt  as 
I  did,  could  I  wish  to  reside  in  her  family,  specially 
as  matters  were  so  altered  between  Andrew  and  me. 
I  wrote  as  kindly  as  I  could,  specially  recommend- 
ing to  my  aunt's  care  our  old  friends  Jeanne  and 
Simon.  One  good  reason  is  as  good  as  a  hundred, 
and  I  gave  no  other  for  remaining  where  I  was 
than  the  wish  of  my  guardian. 

I  spent  the  autumn  and  winter  quietly  enough  at 
Stantoun  Court.  At  first,  of  course,  I  kept  myself 
quite  in  retirement,  but  by  degrees  I  began  once 
more  to  mix  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  to 
take  my  share  in  what  was  going  on.  My  aunt 
would  have  me  take  music  lessons  of  a  gentleman 
in  Biddeford,  who  came  to  our  house  every  week 
for  that  purpose,  and  at  last  took  up  his  residence 
there  altogether.  He  improved  me  very  much  in 
music,  both  singing  and  playing,  and  I  also  learned 
some  arithmetic  of  him,  especially  such  as  relates  to 
the  keeping  of  accounts — a  knowledge  I  have  since 
found  very  useful. 

There  was  a  school  at  Stantoun  Court,  known  as 
Lady  Rosamond's  school,  which  had  been  endowed 
by  some  former  Lady  Stantoun  out  of  the  revenues 


330  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

of  tlie  suppressed  priory.  This  school  had  been 
closed  for  some  time,  and  the  house  had  fallen  into 
disrepair,  but  Mr.  Penrose  was  very  desirous  of 
having  it  opened  again,  and  he  had  at  last  per- 
suaded my  lord  to  put  the  house  in  order  and  to 
settle  a  school-mistress  once  more.  This  last  was 
more  easily  said  than  done,  since  no  one  could  be 
found  who  came  up  to  Mr.  Penrose's  ideas  of  what 
was  desirable.  At  last  I  was  the  means  of  supply- 
ing the  need,  though  at  a  considerable  sacrifice  to 
myself.  My  lady  was  one  day  admiring  some 
work  of  Dinah's,  and  saying  what  a  treasure  she 
was. 

"  Oh,  my  lady,  why  would  she  not  make  a  good 
mistress  for  the  new  school  ?"  I  exclaimed,  struck 
with  a  sudden  thought.  My  lady  looked  surprised, 
but  by  no  means  displeased. 

"I  believe  that  is  a  bright  thought,"  said  she. 
"  But  hath  Dinah  the  needful  knowledge  ?" 

"  She  can  read  and  write  beautifully,"  said  I, 
"  and  she  hath  some  knowledge  of  figures.  There 
is  no  sort  of  work  she  does  not  understand,  and  she 
is  very  apt  to  teach." 

' '  But  can  you  spare  her  ?' '  asked  my  lady. 

"  I  shall  not  like  to  spare  her,  that  is  the  truth, 
my  lady  ;  but  if  it  is  for  the  good  of  the  school,  1 
will  not  be  selfish,"  1  replied.  "  I  think  the  place 
is  as  well  fitted  for  her  as  she  is  for  it,  and  I  believe 
it  will  please  her  well  to  have  a. home  of  her  own." 

"  Well,  I  will  mention  the  matter  to  my  lord, 
and  do  you  talk  it  over  with  Mr.  Penrose,  and  we 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          331 

will  see  what  is  to  be  done,"  said  my  lady  ;  "  I  shall 
have  to  depend  upon  you  a  good  deal  in  this  busi- 
ness of  the  school,  Vevette.  Yon  know  I  am  no 
great  walker.  Theo  has  no  turn  for  such  work,  and 
I  know  not  how  it  is" — and  she  sighed — "  Martha 
does  manage  so  to  set  every  one  against  her." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  the  work,"  I  said  ;  "  sup- 
pose I  go  down  directly  and  consult  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Penrose  ?' ' 

' '  Do  so  if  you  will,  and  ask  them  to  come  to 
supper  to-night." 

"When  Theo  heard  where  I  was  going,  she  said 
she  would  walk  with  me.  "We  had  a  pleasant  ram- 
ble through  the  wood  and  down  the  Coombe  to  the 
village,  and  were  most  hospitably  received  by  good 
Mrs.  Penrose,  and  entertained  with  cakes  and  cream, 
Mr.  Penrose  was  well  pleased  with  the  idea,  and 
said  he  would  himself  talk  with  Dinah  and  find  out 
her  qualifications. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  parson's  wife,"  said  Theo, 
as  we  walked  homeward. 

"  Tou  Theo  !"  I  exclaimed,  in  amazement. 
"  You  of  all  people." 

"  Yes,  I  of  all  people,"  she  returned  gayly. 

"  It  seems  to  me  such  a  useful,  pleasant,  quiet 
life." 

"  But  I  thought  you  did  not  like  quiet,"  I  said. 
*'  You  always  seem  to  enjoy  company  so  much." 

"  "Well,  so  I  do  ;  and  1  like  to  dress  prettily,  just 
as  I  like  everything  to  be  pretty  and  neat  ;  but 
my  head  is  not  set  on  such  matters — no,  not  so 


33 2  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

much  as  Martha's,  though  she  is  so  demure.     Per- 
haps not  so  much  as  yours  is." 

"  You  would  make  a  good  parson's  wife  in  many 
ways,  I  am  sure  of  that,"  said  I.  "  You  would 
make  every  one  like  you." 

"  I  know  I  am  not  so  very  bright,"  said  Theo  ; 
"  I  cannot  sing  and  play  like  you,  nor  read  great 
books  like  Martha,  nor  do  any  other  grand  things. 
But  I  like  to  help  people  enjoy  themselves  in  their 
own  way,  and  to  comfort  them  in  trouble  if  I  can." 

"  1  am  sure  you  do,"  said  I.  "  Janey  Lee  said 
the  other  day  when  her  child  died  it  was  a  comfort 
just  to  have  you  come  in." 

"  Did  she  ?  I  am  very  glad  ,"  said  Theo.  "  But 
I  don't  know  what  I  did,  only  to  sit  by  her,  and  let 
her  weep,  and  by  and  by  draw  her  on  to  talk  of  the 
poor  babe  and  its  little  pretty  ways.  1  never  can 
preach  to  people  in  trouble.  It  seems  somehow 
unfeeling  to  talk  to  them  of  judgments  and  so  on 
No,  if  I  should  marry  a  parson  I  shouM  let  him  do 
.ill  the  preaching,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  I  should 
content  myself  with  making  his  house  pleasant,  and 
cooking  up  messes  for  the  poor,  and  making  baby 
tilings  for  the  lying-in  women.  That  is  my  idea  of 
a  happy  life." 

It  seemed  as  if  Theo's  idea  of  a  happy  life 
was  like  enough  to  be  fulfilled.  She  went  on  a 
little  visit  to  her  godmother,  my  lord's  sister,  an 
elderly  lady  who  had  a  house  near  Exeter,  where  she 
maintained  several  young  ladies  of  reduced  circum- 
stances but  good  family,  giving  them  a  suitable 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          333 

education,  and  a  small  dowry  whenever  they  settled 
in  life.  Here  she  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Dean  of  Exeter,  a  man,  of  course,  a  good  deal  older 
than  herself,  but  of  fine  presence  and  agreeable 
manners.  He  had  always  been  a  good  deal  of  a  stick, 
ler  for  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy  ;  but  it  seems  Theo 
found  means  to  change  his  mind,  for  she  had  not 
been  at  home  a  week  before  he  followed  her,  and 
asked  her  of  her  father  in  marriage.  It  was  one  of 
those  happy  matches  to  which  there  seenh>  no  ob- 
jection on  any  side.  The  dean  was  rich  and  greatly 
respected.  He  had  beside  his  deanery  a  cure  in  the 
same  parish  where  my  lady  Jemina,  my  lord's  sister, 
resided,  and  a  beautiful  rectory,  where  in  Theo  might 
concoct  sick  messes  and  make  baby  linen  to  her 
heart's  content.  She  had  a  small  property  of  her 
own,  and  my  lord  gave  her  a  portion  as  to  his  own 
daughter.  Mrs.  Martha's  wedding  (which  I  should 
have  mentioned  in  its  proper  place)  was  celebrated 
very  quietly,  as  we  were  all  in  recent  mourning  for 
my  mother  ;  but  my  lord  was  determined  that  Theo 
should  have  a  grand  wedding.  So  she  did,  indeed, 
with  all  proper  ceremony  from  the  first  going  to 
church  to  the  bedding  of  the  bride.  Matters  of  that 
sort  have  greatly  changed  since  that  time,  and  I 
cannot  but  think  for  the  better,  though  I  do  hold 
that  weddings  should  be  celebrated  publicly  and 
joyfully,  not  huddled  up  as  if  they  were  something 
to  be  ashamed  of.  If  matters  go  on  as  they  have 
begun,  I  expect  my  granddaughters  will  jump  into 
i  carriage  at  the  church  door,  and  drive  off  to  get 


334  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

as  far  as  possible  from  all  tlieir  friends.  However, 
Theo's  wedding  was  public  enough.  We  had  the 
house  full  of  guests,  and  among  them  two  whom  I 
had  no  wish  to  see,  and  beheld  with  dread  as  birds 
of  ill  omen,  and  so  indeed  they  were.  These  were 
no  other  than  my  cousin  Betty  and  her  husband. 
They  had  come  to  the  neighborhood  to  visit  a 
cousin  of  Mr.  Lovel's,  and  my  lady  meeting  them 
and  learning  who  they  were,  thought  she  could  do 
no  less  than  invite  them  to  the  wedding.  My  lord 
did  not  look  too  well  pleased  when  he  heard  of  it, 
for  he  had  taken  a  great  dislike  to  Betty  upon  their 
first  meeting,  but  he  could  not  treat  her  otherwise 
than  courteously  in  his  own  house.  As  to  Mr. 
Lovel  he  never  seemed  to  me  to  have  any  character, 
but  to  be  a  mere  lay  figure  for  the  display  of  what- 
ever mode  in  clothes  or  manners  happened  to  be 
uppermost. 

Betty  had  not  been  one  evening  in  the  house  be- 
fore she  began  exercising  her  powers.  My  lord 
was  praising  up  the  institution  of  marriage,  of 
which  he  was  a  great  promoter,  and  my  lady,  smiling, 
called  him  a  match-maker. 

"  Well,  I  am  a  match -maker,  I  don't  deny  it," 
said  he  ;  "  would  you  be  ashamed  of  it  if  you  were 
me,  cousin  Lovel  ?" 

Betty  had  been  sitting  rather  silent,  and  I  sup- 
pose he  meant  to  include  her  in  the  conversation. 
She  answered  at  once, 

"  No,  indeed,  my  lord.  It  is  a  good  vocation.  I 
am  sure  I  have  always  thanked  Vevette  for  betray- 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  335 

ing  me  to  my  brother,  and  so  bringing  my  marriage 
to  pass  sooner  than  I  could  have  done." 

She  spoke  in  those  clear  silver  tones  of  hers,  which 
always  commanded  attention,  and  several  people 
turned  to  look  at  us.  As  may  be  guessed,  I  was 
covered  with  confusion,  but  I  made  shift  to  an- 
swer. ' ' 

"  You  certainly  owe  me  no  thanks,  Betty,  for 
what  I  never  did.  I  knew  nothing  of  your  affairs, 
and  therefore  could  not  betray  them,  had  I  been  so 
inclined." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !"  said  she,  with  her 
mocking,  superior  smile,  and  then  presently  to  me  in 
a  kind  of  stage  aside  which  every  one  about  us  could 
hear, 

11  "What  is  the  use  of  keeping  up  that  stale  pre- 
tence ?  I  suppose  you  did  what  you  thought  right, 
and  I  don't  blame  you  ;  but  why  deny  what  you 
and  I  know  to  be  true  ?" 

To  this  I  made  no  answer  whatever,  and  my  lady 
presently  called  upon  me  to  sing.  I  by  and  by  saw 
Betty  in  close  conference  with  Mrs.  Bernard,  and 
I  had  no  doubt  from  the  looks  Martha  cast  at  me 
that  I  was  the  subject  of  their  conference. 

The  next  day  brought  home  my  lord's  son,  whom 
I  had  not  yet  seen.  He  had  been  travelling  abroad 
for  some  years,  but  meeting  the  news  of  his  sister- 
in-law's  approaching  marriage  in  London,  he  had 
hurried  home  to  be  present  on  the  occasion.  He 
was  a  fine,  grave,  soldierly-looking  young  man, 
and  very  much  like  Andrew  in  the  fact;,  though 


336  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

taller  and  with  much  more  of  courtly  grace  in  his 
manner.  He  was  warmly  welcomed  by  all,  and 
especially  by  Mrs.  Bernard.  I  never  saw  her  soften 
so  much  toward  any  one,  and,  indeed,  I  believe  he 
was  the  only  person  she  ever  really  loved.  He  was 
very  polite  and  kind  to  me,  and  I  naturally  liked 
him  because  he  was  so  much  like  Andrew.  He  was 
musical,  like  all  his  family,  and  we  sang  together  a 
good  deal.  One  morning,  as  we  were  practising  a 
song  together,  Betty  peeped  into  the  room.  I 
believe  she  thought  I  did  not  see  her,  for  she  slip- 
ped out  and  presently  returned  with  my  lady,  whom 
I  have  no  doubt  she  brought  on  purpose.  They 
stood  listening  a  few  minutes,  and  then  Betty  said 
half  under  her  breath,  and  with  a  sigh, 

"  Ah,  my  poor  brother,  1  see  his  cake  is  dough  ; 
but  no  doubt  it  is  all  for  the  best." 

"We  stopped  singing  at  this,  and  my  lady  asked 
me  with  some  sharpness  whether  I  had  been  at  the 
school  that  morning.  I  told  her  no,  and  she  at  once 
thought  of  errands  for  me,  both  there  and  at  the 
village,  which  would  keep  me  busy  all  the  morning. 

"  I  will  walk  with  you,  cousin,'1  said  my  young 
lord.  "  I  want  to  go  down  to  the  Cove  and  see 
Will  Atkins." 

Certainly,  my  lady  had  not  mended  matters  for 
herself  or  me.  I  got  rid  of  my  cousin  as  soon  as  I 
could,  telling  him  that  I  should  be  a  long  time  at 
the  school-house,  and  after  that  had  some  poor  peo- 
ple to  visit.  He  was  rather  unwilling  to  leave  me, 
but  I  insisted,  and  he  had  to  yield. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          337 

Betty  staid  two  days  longer,  and  then  went  back 
to  Allinstree,  leaving  mischief  enough  behind  her. 
I  do  believe  my  lady  meant  to  be  just  to  me,  but  it 
was  hard  to  resist  the  force  of  Betty's  constant  and 
artful  insinuations,  and  she  really  came  to  think 
that  I  was  angling  for  her  step-son.  It  was  not  long, 
of  course,  before  my  lord  took  up  the  same  idea,  and 
what  was  worst  of  all,  my  young  lord  soon  showed 
that  he  had  no  kind  of  objection  to  being  angled 
for,  and  in  fact  was  very  ready  and  even  anxious  to 
be  caught. 

From  this  time  my  life  at  the  castle  was  not  at  all 
comfortable.  I  missed  the  companionship  of  Theo, 
of  whom  I  had  grown  very  fond,  though  she  never 
tilled  Rosamond's  place  to  me.  I  missed  my 
mother  more  and  more.  Besides,  my  conscience 
was  not  easy.  My  lord  and  lady  were  good  people, 
as  1  have  said  ;  but  the  times  were  times  of  great 
laxity.  It  was  the  fashion  to  profess  great  abhor- 
rence of  the  Puritans  and  their  ways,  and  immense 
devotion  to  the  Church  of  England,  and  a  good 
many  people  showed  their  devotion  by  deviating  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  ways  of  the  precisians,  as 
they  were  called.  We  professed  to  observe  Sunday 
— that  is,  we  all  went  to  church  in  the  morning,  and 
my  lady  was  very  careful  to  see  that  all  the  servants 
\vere  present  at  prayers  ;  but  my  lord  yawned  over  a 
play  or  romance  all  the  evening  when  ho  had  no  one 
to  take  a  hand  at  cards  or  tables  with,  and  when  we 
had  company  staying  in  the  house  the  Sunday  even- 
ing was  as  gay  as  any  other.  My  young  lord  had 


338  The  Chevalier  s  Datighter. 

taken  up  the  kind  of  infidel  notions  by  which,  as  I 
said,  some  young  men  tried  to  appear  intellectual  at 
a  cheap  rate,  and  he  had  brought  down  some  books 
of  Mr.  Hobbes  with  him  which  he  would  fain  have 
had  me  read  ;  but  that  I  refused.  I  had  been 
brought  up  to  a  strict  observance  of  Sunday  as  a  day 
of  worship  and  of  sacred  rest,  and  at  first  I  was 
shocked  at  what  I  saw.  While  my  mother  lived  we 
usually  spent  our  Sunday  evenings  together  in  her 
own  room,  but  after  her  death,  and  especially  after 
Dinah  went  away,  I  was  easily  drawn  into  whatever 
was  going  on  below  stairs,  even  to  playing  at  tables 
with  my  lord,  when  he  had  no  one  else  to  amuse 
him.  Then  my  old  pleasure  in  dreams  of  wealth 
and  consequence  revived.  I  was  something  of 
an  heiress,  though  my  income  was  wholly  dependent 
upon  my  lord's  pleasure  or  discretion  till  I  should 
be  of  age,  and  so  I  had  plenty  of  attention.  I  began 
again  to  let  the  world  come  into  my  mind,  and,  of 
course,  is  soon  gained  a  foothold  there  and  ruled  for 
the  most  part  supreme.  Now  and  then,  especially 
when  anything  strongly  reminded  me  of  my 
mother,  my  better  self — that  self  which  loved  An- 
drew— came  uppermost,  but  at  such  times  I  suffered 
so  much  from  the  reproaches  of  conscience  that  I 
strove  by  every  means  to  stifle  its  voice.  I  said  to 
myself  that  my  father  and  mother  had  been  brought 
by  the  circumstances  in  which  they  were  placed  to 
take  a  gloomy  view  of  religion  and  its  require- 
ments. That  the  strictness  which  they  had  incul- 
cated was  not  needful  at  present,  and  that  it  tended 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          339 

(a  favorite  argument  this  with  the  devil)  to  make 
religion  unamiable.  That  a  man  or  woman  might 
be  a  Christian  and  yet  allow  themselves  many  diver- 
sions which  the  stricter  sort  denied.  In  fine,  my 
thought  was,  not  how  much  I  could  do  for  my 
Lord,  but  how  much  of  the  world  I  could  safely 
keep  for  myself.  I  was  like  a  man  who  in  time  of 
war,  instead  of  fleeing  to  the  safe  hills  in  the  interior 
of  the  country,  chooses  to  live  as  near  the  border  as 
he  can  for  the  advantage  of  keeping  up  a  trade  with 
the  enemy.  Instead  of  simply  shutting  my  ears  to 
my  cousin's  infidel  reasonings  and  declining  the 
subject,  I  allowed  myself  to  listen  to  him,  and  to 
be  influenced  by  him  to  think  that  so  long  as  a  man 
lived  a  good  life,  forms  and  doctrines  mattered  very 
little,  and  I  did  not  ask  myself  on  what  this  good 
life  was  to  be  founded.  In  short,  1  grew  more  and 
more  conformed  to  the  world,  which  in  the  bottom 
of  my  heart  I  had  always  loved,  and  in  proportion 
as  I  did  so,  the  remembrance  of  my  father  and 
mother,  and  of  their  teachings  faded  from  my  mind. 
I  still  loved  Andrew  enough  to  reject  with  consider- 
able vivacity  a  proposal  made  me  by  young  Mr. 
Champernoun,  a  gentleman  of  the  neighborhood, 
with  a  good  fortune,  and  I  must  say  a  personable 
and  pleasing  man,  though  grave  beyond  his  years. 
My  lord  and  lady  were  very  much  vexed  at  my  re- 
fusal, and  used  every  argument  to  make  me  change 
my  resolution,  saying  that  Mr.  Champernoun  was  a 
much  better  match  than  Andrew  could  ever  be — 
which  was  true  so  far  as  fortune  went — and  that  I 


340  The  Chevalier  a   Daughter. 

should  perhaps  never  have  so  good  a  chance  to  set- 
tle in  life  again. 

"  Well,  well  !"  said  my  lord  at  last.  "  Wilful 
must  have  her  way.  An  I  had  not  promised  your 
honored  mother  never  to  force  your  inclinations  in 
any  such  matter,  I  should  not  use  so  much  cere- 
mony with  you,  mistress  !  You  should  he  made  to 
do  what  was  best  for  you,  whether  you  liked  it  or 
not." 

He  could  not  let  the  matter  rest,  but  must  needs 
take  it  up  again  when  his  son  was  present. 

"  Vevette  is  right, "  said  my  young  lord.  "  Were 
I  in  her  place  I  would  not  marry  black  Basil 
Champernoun  either — a  sour  Puritan  and  precisian 
whose  father  was  in  the  favor  of  Old  Noll  as  long 
as  he  lived.  I  wonder,  my  lord,  that  you  could 
think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Aye,  aye,  you  would  fain  find  her  a  husband, 
T  dare  say  ;  but  mind,  I  will  have  none  of  that.  If 
Yevette  is  flying  at  any  such  game  she  may  as  well 
come  down  at  once." 

"  I  am  not  flying  at  any  game  that  I  know  of," 
said  I,  feeling  my  cheeks  flame,  as  what  lady's  would 
not. 

"Your  face  tells  another  tale,"  returned  my 
lord.  "  Such  blushes  do  not  come  for  nothing." 

"  One  may  blush  for  others  as  well  as  for  one's 
self,"  said  I,  rising  from  the  tables  where  I  had 
been  playing  with  my  lord,  and  in  my  confusion 
oversetting  the  board.  And  I  betook  myself  to  my 
own  room,  nor  did  I  leave  it  all  the  next  day,  say- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter*          341 

ing  that  I  was  ill  at  ease,  which  was  the  truth,  and 
wished  to  be  quiet.  Lewis  must  needs  make  mat- 
ters worse  by  coming  to  my  door  to  inquire  for  me, 
and  though  I  did  not  see  him,  but  sent  him  a  mes- 
sage by  Lucy,  rriy  new  little  maid,  his  doing  so  did 
not  help  me  with  his  father  and  mother. 

When  I  came  down-stairs  again,  I  found  my 
lord  had  gotten  over  his  pet  and  was  as  gracious  as 
before,  but  my  lady  was  very  cool  to  me.  She 
loved  Lewis  as  her  own  son,  and  was  ambitious  for 
him.  The  insinuations  of  Betty  had  not  been  with- 
out their  effect,  and  Mrs.  Bernard,  who  was  settled 
in  the  neighborhood,  threw  all  her  influence  on  the 
same  side.  In  short,  I  was  very  unhappy,  and  as  I 
had  about  that  time  an  opportunity  of  writing  to 
my  Aunt  Jemima  in  London,  I  told  her  my 
troubles,  and  added  that  I  knew  not  what  to  do. 
The  result  was  an  immediate  invitation  from  her 
and  my  uncle  to  come  to  them  in  London,  and  make 
their  house  my  home.  My  uncle  also  wrote  a  let- 
ter to  my  lord,  which  I  did  not  see,  but  which  I  sup- 
pose satisfied  him,  for  he  made  no  objection  to  my 
going,  and  my  lady  decidedly  forwarded  it.  Lewis 
had  a  great  deal  to  say  against  it,  but  it  may  be 
guessed  that  his  arguments  had  no  great  weight. 
It  was  settled  that  I  was  to  travel  with  Theo  and 
her  husband,  who  were  going  up  in  a  week  or  two, 
and  my  lady  was  directly  in  a  great  bustle  to  get 
me  ready  ;  now  that  there  was  a  chance  of  getting 
me  off  her  hands  she  was  all  kindness  once  more. 

The  evening  before  I  was  to  go  to  join  Theo  at 


342  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

Exeter,  1  sought  out  my  lady  in  her  dressing-room 
and  asked  to  speak  with  her  in  private.  I  thanked 
her  for  her  kindness  to  me,  and  assured  her  that  I 
had  had  no  desire  to  displease  her  in  any  way,  and 
least  of  all  by  marrying  Lewis.  Then  as  she  gave 
me  a  kind  though  somewhat  embarrassed  answer,  I 
ventured  to  ask  her  what  Betty  had  said  about  me. 
She  would  not  tell  me  at  first,  but  presently  changed 
her  purpose,  and  when  I  heard  the  cunning  tale 
which  Betty  had  imposed  upon  her  I  no  longer 
wondered  so  much  at  her  change  toward  me.  It 
was  not  only  in  the  matter  of  the  meeting  with  Mr. 
Lovel,  that  she  had  misrepresented  me,  but  she  had 
told  my  lady  that  I  had  avowed  to  her  a  settled  pur- 
pose to  make  myself  the  wife  of  some  great  man, 
and  to  that  very  end  had  persuaded  my  mother  to 
break  off  the  match  with  Andrew,  at  the  very  time 
that  the  change  in  my  fortunes  made  it  likely  that  I 
should  go  to  Stantoun  Court. 

I  explained  the  whole  matter  to  my  lady  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  she  wao  pleased  to  say  that  I 
had  wholly  exculpated  myself,  and  to  take  shame 
to  herself  for  being  so  ready  to  believe  evil.  She 
kissed  me  and  said  she  was  sorry  I  was  going  away, 
and  bade  me  always  think  of  Stantoun  Court  as  my 
home.  She  had  been  very  generous  to  me  before, 
and  she  now  gave  me  a  gold  watch  and  a  beautiful 
set  of  pearl  ornaments  which  she  had  bought  in 
Exeter.  I  believe  she  talked  my  lord  over  that 
night,  for  the  next  day  he  told  me  he  was  sorry  I 
was  going  away,  and  if  I  would  even  now  give  up 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          343 

the  plan  I  should  have  a  home  at  the  court  as  long 
as  I  liked,  and  he  would  not  tease  me  to  marry  any 
one.  But  the  die  was  cast.  The  step  was  taken 
which  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  journey — far 
longer  indeed,  than  any  of  us  thought,  and  I  had 
no  mind  to  turn  back. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

LONDON. 

HE  next  day  I  went  to  Exeter,  from  which 
place  we  were  to  set  out  for  London  in  a 
few  days.  I  found  Theo  living  in  a  noble 
house,  with  everything  pleasant  about  her, 
and  enjoying  herself  to  the  full.  She  had  no  fancy 
for  the  journey  to  London,  and  would,  I  believe, 
much  have  preferred  going  to  the  country  rectory, 
whither  Mr.  Dean  usually  retired  in  summer.  We 
rode  out  to  see  the  place,  and  truly  I  did  not  wonder 
at  her  love  for  it — all  about  it  was  so  beautiful. 
There  were  no  gentlemen's  houses  very  near,  but 
my  Lady  Jemima,  my  lord's  sister,  lived,  as  I  have 
said,  in  an  old  mansion  which  had  once  been  a  con- 
vent of  gray  nuns.  The  house  stood  on  a  rising 
ground,  and  was  beautifully  embosomed  in  very 
ancient  timber  and  a  part  of  this  same  wood  reached 
even  to  the  walls  of  the  rectory  itself. 

We  visited  the  little  village  school,  taught  by  a 
charming  old  dame,  and  where  Theo  distributed 
buns,  gingerbread,  and  comfits  with  a  lavish  hand. 
Then  we  went  into  the  house,  where  all  was  in 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          345 

order,  and  where  the  old  housekeeper  and  her 
blooming  neat  maids  welcomed  us  with  evident, 
pleasure  at  seeing  their  mistress.  We  also  called 
upon  my  Lady  Jemima,  who  was  as  great  a  contrast 
to  my  own  Aunt  Jem  as  could  well  be  conceived. 
She  was  sitting  at  work  among  her  family  of 
maidens,  who  were  all  busy  with  their  fingers, 
while  one  read  aloud.  There  were  six  of  them,  all 
dressed  alike  in  gray  gowns  and  white  caps  with 
blue  ribbons,  and  I  must  say  they  looked  very 
bright  and  happy.  Lady  Jemima  was  a  plain 
woman,  with  none  of  the  family  beauty  of  color, 
but  she  had  a  most  sweet  expression,  at  once  benign 
and  commanding.  She  sent  away  her  young  ladies 
to  walk,  and  then  sat  down  to  talk  with  us. 

"  You  have  married  off  the  last  of  your  old 
family,  have  you  not  ?"  asked  Theo. 

"  Yes,  only  a  month  ago,  and  the  child  hath 
done  well,  I  think.  Another  has  gone  to  be  a  gov' 
erness  in  the  family  of  a  distant  cousin  of  ours,  a 
rich  sugar  refiner's  wife  in  Bristol,  and  in  one  way 
or  another  they  are  all  scattered  and  doing  well  for 
themselves.  But  my  house  is  nearly  full  again." 

"  Not  quite  full,  I  hope,  for  I  have  a  petition  to 
make  for  a  poor  maid,  the  eldest  child  of  Mr. 
Brown,  the  vicar  of  Torton,"  said  Theo,  and  she 
proceeded  to  unfold  the  matter,  saying  that  the 
curate  was  very  poor,  with  a  large  family,  and  this 
daughter  being  lame,  was  not  fit  for  service. 

11  Are  they  so  very  poor  ?"  asked  Lady  Jemima. 

"  They  are  poorer  than  they  need  be  if  the  wife 


346  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

were  a  better  manager,"  replied  the  dean's  lady  ; 
"  but  she  hath  been  a  waiting-gentlewoman  to  my 
Lady  Saville,  and  still  sets  herself  up  on  her  gentility, 
forsooth,  cannot  possibly  work  with  her  hands,  and 
talks  of  how  she  hath  come  down  in  the  world.  The 
aunt,  who  is  a  good  plain  farmer's  wife,  with  a 
small  army  of  children,  tells  me  that  this  maid's 
lameness  hath  come,  she  verily  believes,  from  work- 
ing beyond  her  strength  to  make  up  her  mother's 
deficiencies.  She  is  her  father's  greatest  comfort, 
poor  man,  but  he  will  willingly  spare  her  for  the 
chance  of  having  her  recover  her  health. ' ' 

"Will  you  send  him  to  see  me?"  asked  Lady 
Jemima.  "  I  would  talk  the  matter  over  with  him 
myself,  for  no  disparagement  to  you,  Theo,"  she 
added  with  a  smile,  "  you  are  one  of  those  soft- 
hearted people  who  think  everybody  ought  to  have 
everything,  and  as  my  means  are  limited,  I  must 
make  a  discrimination,  and  not  use  them  to  encour- 
age idleness  or  improvidence." 

Theo  smiled  in  her  turn,  and  admitted  that  she 
was  easily  imposed  upon.  "  But  I  am  learning 
something,  I  assure  you,"  said  she.  "  I  have  found 
out  that  all  the  clean  people  are  not  saints  and  all 
the  dirty  ones  reprobates,  which  was  the  notion  I 
at  first  set  out  witl;." 

After  a  little  more  talk  we  had  dinner  with  Lady 
Jemima  and  the  young  ladies,  and  set  out  on  our 
way  home,  calling  at  the  house  of  the  curate  I  have 
mentioned.  Such  a  house — showing  in  every  cor- 
ner the  results  of  sluttishness  and  improvidence. 


The  Clicvalici  's  Daughter.          347 

The  poor  man,  into  whose  study  we  were  shown, 
sat  in  a  ragged  cassock,  writing  with  one  hand  and 
holding  a  sleeping  infant  on  the  other  arm,  while 
his  lame  daughter  was  resting  upon  a  rude  couch  or 
settle — a  hard  resting-place  it  looked — keeping  two 
more  little  ones  quiet  by  telling  them  a  story,  though 
her  feverish  cheeks  and  bright  heavy -lidded  eyes 
showed  how  much  she  needed  rest.  Another  girl 
about  twelve  was  clearing  r.  table  of  the  remains  of 
what  certainly  looked  like  a  very  scanty  meal.  Theo 
at  once  took  possession  of  the  children,  and  distrib- 
uted some  cakes  imong  them,  which  they  devoured 
in  a  way  that  showed  their  dinner  had  still  left 
them  with  an  appetite.  She  had  also  brought  new 
gowns  for  the  elder  girls,  at  sight  of  which  the 
somewhat  sullen  face  of  the  second  girl  brightened, 
and  she  looked  really  pretty.  The  father  eaid  just 
enough  and  not  too  much  by  way  of  thanks,  and 
promised  that  he  would  go  to  see  Lady  Jemima 
next  day.  Just  as  we  were  about  going  madame 
sailed  into  the  room,  having  evidently  been  busy 
attiring  herself  in  the  remains  of  her  old  waiting - 
gentlewoman's  finery.  She  was  loud  in  her  thanks 
and  praise  of  the  gowns,  and  equally  loud  in  her 
lamentations  over  the  state  of  her  own  wardrobe,  a 
hint  of  which  Theo  took  no  notice. 

"  I  little  thought  I  should  live  to  receive  charity," 
said  the  foolish  woman  ;  "  but  when  one  weds  be- 
neath one's  station,  there  is  no  knowing  what  cue 
will  come  to." 

"As  to  that,  I  dare  say  your  husband  was  so 


348  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

much  in  love  as  to  think  you  capable  of  lilling  any 
station,"  returned  Theo,  wilfully  misunderstanding 
her  ;  whereat  she  tossed  her  head,  and  looked  ready 
to  bite,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  I  dare  say  she  will  make  up  the  gowns  for  her- 
self," said  Theo,  when  we  had  taken  leave.  "  It  is 
a  wonderful  thing  to  see  what  sort  of  people  little 
children  are  sent  to,  is  it  not  ?" 

I  agreed  with  her.  I  may  as  well  say  that  the 
woman  flatly  refused  at  first  to  let  Sally  go  to  Lady 
Jemima,  declaring  that  her  lameness  was  more  than 
half  a  pretence  to  get  rid  of  work.  But  the  father 
had  his  way  for  once,  and  poor  Sally,  if  she  did  not 
recover,  at  least  spent  her  last  days  in  peace. 

In  a  day  or  two  we  went  up  to  London,  in  the 
dean's  coach,  with  outriders,  and  spare  saddle  horses 
for  one  of  us  to  ride  now  and  then.  It  was  a  toil- 
some journey — worse  by  far  than  it  is  now,  and  that 
is  saying  a  great  deal.  More  than  once  the  coach 
was  fairly  stuck,  and  we  had  to  borrow  oxen  from 
the  neighboring  fanners  to  drag  it  out  of  the  mire, 
and  once  we  just  missed  an  attack  from  highway- 
men. They  thought  our  party  too  strong,  it  seems, 
and  let  us  pass,  but  a  gentleman  with  whom  we  had 
spent  the  evening  before  at  an  inn,  was  stripped  of 
all  his  own  and  his  wife's  valuables  and  received  a 
severe  wound  in  the  arm.  However,  in  spite  of 
dangers  and  detentions  we  arrived  safely  in  London 
at  last,  and  I  was  left  at  my  uncle's  new  house  in 
Covent  Garden,  whither  he  had  removed  at  the 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.         349 

death  of  my  Aunt  Jem's  father,  who  had  left  her 
quite  a  fortune. 

My  uncle  and  aunt  were  not  at  home,  but  I  re- 
ceived every  attention  from  my  aunt's  waiting- 
gentlewoman,  and  was  installed  in  a  pleasant  room 
and  treated  to  a  cup  of  chocolate.  I  was  glad  to 
go  to  rest  early,  as  I  was  very  tired  with  the  jour- 
ney, and  Mrs.  Mercer  said  her  lady  would  not  be  at 
home  till  quite  late.  It  was  long  before  I  could  fall 
asleep,  there  was  such  a  noise  in  the  street,  but 
weariness  overcame  me  at  last.  I  slept  soundly  and 
awoke  refreshed,  though  still  somewhat  stiff  with 
the  jolting  I  had  endured.  I  had  meant  to  begin 
the  day  with  reading  and  devotion,  but  I  was  hur- 
ried and  a  good  deal  in  awe  of  the  new  waiting- 
damsel  my  aunt  had  provided  for  me.  I  was  afraid 
I  should  keep  my  aunt  waiting  breakfast,  and  so 
went  down  without  any  prayer  whatever.  Thus  I 
began  my  new  life  with  a  false  step. 

I  found  my  uncle  much  changed,  and  not  for  the 
better.  He  received  me  very  kindly,  as  did  my 
aunt,  but  he  looked  haggard,  had  grown  older,  and 
had  a  hard,  worn  expression,  as  if  he  lived  under 
the  stress  of  some  habitual  excitement.  My  aunt 
too  looked  older,  and  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  her 
beautiful  bloom.  They  both  welcomed  me  kindly, 
and  my  aunt  began  at  once  to  talk  of  taking  me  out 
to  the  theatre  and  the  park  so  soon  as  I  should  be 
provided  with  new  clothes.  My  uncle  said  very  little, 
and  went  out  immediately  after  breakfast.  I  saw 
his  wife  take  him  aside  and  ask  him  some  question, 


350  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

to  which,  judging  from  her  face,  she  did  not  receive 
a  favorable  answer. 

"  But  the  child  must  have  new  clothes  !  I  can- 
not take  her  out  with  me  till  she  is  fit  to  be  seen, ' ' 
I  heard  her  say. 

"  "Well,  well.  I  suppose  Lord  Stantoun  has  sent 
me  some  money  by  the  dean.  I  shall  wait  upon 
him  as  soon  as  it  is  late  enough.  Meantime  I  can 
spare  you  this, ' '  putting  some  gold  into  her  hands. 
"  It  is  a  part  of  my  winnings  last  night." 

* '  Ah,  Charles,  if  you  would  but  quit  gaming,  "said 
my  aunt,  in  a  low  tone,  but  not  so  low  but  that  I 
heard  her. 

"  How  can  I,  child,  when  the  king  sets  the  ex- 
ample, unless  I  withdraw  from  court  altogether, 
and  I  suppose  you  would  not  have  me  do  that  ?" 

"  No,  you  cannot  do  that,"  replied  my  aunt, 
"  but  then—" 

"Don't  trouble  thy  head  about  the  matter," 
interrupted  my  Uncle  Charles.  "  If  I  lose  one 
day,  why  I  gain  the  next.  So  it  is  all  even.  You 
will  be  an  old  woman  before  your  time,  and  have  to 
take  to  painting,  like  my  Lady  Castlemaine — or  to 
devotion,  which  I  should  like  still  less." 

So  saying  he  kissed  her  and  went  away,  and  she 
came  back  to  me  with  a  little  line  of  vexation  be- 
tween her  arched  brows. 

"  Well,  well  !  Men  will  be  men.  Come  up- 
stairs, child,  and  we  will  look  over  your  wardrobe 
and  see  what  you  need. ' ' 

I  ventured  to  say  that  my  Lady  Stantoun  had 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.  351 

provided  me  with  everything  she  thought  need- 
ful. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say,  according  to  her  notions.  Buf 
she  has  not  been  in  London  these  seven  years,  and 
I  dare  say  she  has  not  changed  the  fashion  of  her 
dress  since  that  time." 

My  new  maid  had  unpacked  all  my  things  by 
this  time,  and  my  aunt,  though  she  criticised  unmer- 
cifully the  fashion  of  my  gowns  and  petticoats,  yet 
allowed  that  Lady  Stantoun  had  been  very  liberal. 

"  This  may  do  well  enough  with  a  silk  petticoat 
laid  with  silver,"  said  she,  laying  aside  what  was 
meant  for  my  best  gown  ;  "  but  you  must  have 
another  and  some  lace  whisks  and  a  hat  and  riding 
coat,  and  Mercer  must  curl  your  hair." 

"  It  curls  of  itself,"  said  I,  "  but  I  have  always 
worn  a  cap." 

"  Nonsense,  child  ;  what  do  you  want  of  a  cap  ? 
Come,  I  shall  allow  you  no  free  will  in  this  matter 
of  dressing.  You  must  needs  confess  that  I  am  the 
best  judge,  and  be  ruled  by  me.  You  shall  wear 
my  t'other  hat  and  mantle,  and  we  will  drive  to  the 
Royal  Exchange  and  buy  .you  some  gloves  and 
stockings  and  a  fan  and  so  on." 

" '  But,  Aunt  Jem,  I  am  in  mourning, ' '  I  ventured 
to  say. 

"  Well,  and  so  am  I,  child.  Don't  you  see  I  am 
all  in  black?" 

Certainly  she  was  in  black,  but  I  should  never 
have  guessed  she  was  in  mourning,  she  wore  so 
much  lace  and  fine  cut  work.  However,  I  prom- 


35 2  The  Chevaliers  Daughter, 

ised  to  be  guided  by  her  judgment  in  all  such 
matters,  as  indeed  was  no  more  than  fitting,  seeing 
I  had  come  to  be  under  her  care.  We  presently 
went  out  in  my  uncle's  coach,  and  were  busy  shop- 
ping all  the  morning.  I  thought  I  never  could  use 
all  the  things  my  aunt  bought  for  me,  and  my  head 
fairly  whirled  with  the  excitement  of  seeing  so 
many  new  places  and  people.  My  aunt  was  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  gayest  society  about  the  court, 
and  many  were  the  salutes  she  received  from  this 
and  that  great  lady — even  from  my  Lady  Castlemaine 
herself  and  another  very  handsome  woman  whom 
she  said  was  Mrs.  Stewart,  a  great  favorite  of  the 
king's.  When  we  had  finished  our  shopping,  we 
went  into  the  park,  and  here  I  saw  the  king  and 
queen,  the  latter  of  whom  I  had  never  beheld  be- 
fore. I  thought  her  very  sad-looking,  and  re- 
marked upon  it  to  my  aunt. 

"  Yes,  poor  thing,  she  is  sad  enough,  and  no 
wonder,  since  she  is  silly  enough  to  love  her  hus- 
band," said  my  aunt. 

' '  Do  you  think  it  silly  for  a  woman  to  love  her 
husband,  aunt  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  when  he  does  not  love  her.  But  in  truth, 
the  queen  is  too  grave  and  too  devout  to  please  a 
merry  monarch  like  King  Charles. 

11  Perhaps  she  finds  comfort  in  devotion,"  I  ven- 
tured to  remark. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say.  'Tis  the  refuge  of  disap- 
pointed wives  and  faded  widows.  Perhaps  I  may 
take  to  it  some  day — who  knows  ?" 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  353 

I  thought  within  myself  that  my  mother  always 
found  comfort  in  devotion,  though  she  was  by  no 
means  faded,  and  that  devotion  when  it  was  taken 
up  in  that  way  as  a  last  resort,  was  not  like  to  afford 
any  great  solace  ;  but  I  did  not  venture  to  speak 
my  thoughts.  I  had  already  learned  to  be  ashamed 
of  being  thoaght  devout. 

' '  And  who  is  that  young  lady  in  attendance  upon 
the  queen  ?"  I  asked. 

"  That  !     Oh,  that  is  Mrs.  Godolphin,"  was  my 
aunt's  reply,  with  a  curious  change  of  tone.      ' '  She 
is  a  true  saint,  if  you  please.     I  do  not  believe  the 
smile  or  frown  of  any  or  all  the  kings  in  Europe 
would  make  her  turn  a  hair's  breadth  to  the  right 
hand  or  the  left,  in  any  matter  of  duty  or  religion. 
We  used  to  be  great  friends  when  we  were  young 
chits  together  at  school,"  and  she  sighed. 
' '  And  are  you  not  friends  now  ?' '  I  asked. 
"  We  have  never  quarrelled,    child,    if  that  is 
what  you  mean,  but  she  has  gone  her  way,  and  I. 
mine.     There,  we  won't  talk  of  it.     See  there  is 
the  coach  of  the  French  ambassador.    Is  it  not  fine  ? 
He  has  some  fine  lady  and  gentleman  visiting  him 
from  France.     I  dare  say  we  shall  meet  them  to- 
morrow night.    But  we  must  be  going  home  to  din- 
ner." 

My  uncle  was  not  at  dinner,  being  in  attendance 
upon  the  Duke  of  York  in  some  capacity  or  other. 
1  forget  what.  When  the  meal  was  over  my  aunt 
said  she  meant  to  take  a  rest,  and  she  dared  to  say  I 
would  like  to  do  the  same.  I  took  the  hint  and  re- 


354  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

tired  to  my  own  room.  Here  was  a  chance  for  the 
devotions  I  had  neglected  in  the  morning,  but  it 
may  be  guessed  that  I  was  in  no  promising  frame 
for  them.  However,  I  read  a  chapter  and  hurried 
over  a  few  forms,  and  then  spent  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon  reading  a  French  romance  I  had  found 
on  my  table,  and  in  practising  upon  the  harpsicon 
my  uncle  had  sent  home  for  me.  He  was  very  fond 
of  music,  and  wished  me  above  all  things  to  culti- 
vate it  and  to  improve  my  voice.  In  the  evening 
my  aunt  entertained  a  small  company  of  her  friends, 
and  she  would  have  me  sing  for  them.  I  received 
many  compliments,  both  upon  my  voice  and  my 
playing,  with  which  my  aunt  was  honestly  pleased, 
for  she  was;  never  one  to  envy  another's  success. 
When  I  went  up  to  my  room  I  found  Mercer  wait- 
ing to  undress  me  and  curl  my  hair.  She  had  also 
a  new  gown  and  petticoat  ready  for  me  to  try  on, 
and  I  actually  forgot  all  about  my  prayers  till  I  was 
in  bed  and  the  light  out.  So  ended  iny  first  day  in 
London. 

Next  morning  I  received  a  message  to  come  to 
my  aunt's  bedroom  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed. 

"  Is  my  aunt  ill  ?"  I  asked  of  Mercer,  who  was 
waiting  to  show  me  the  way. 

'"  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  d'Antin.  She  wishes  to  intro- 
duce you  to  your  teacher  of  music." 

I  actually  did  not  know  where  to  look  when  I 
entered  my  aunt's  room  and  found  her  lying  in  bed 
half  raised  upon  a  heap  of  laced  pillows,  with  only 
a  light  mantle  thrown  over  her  night  dress,  while  a 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          355 

very  smart  gentleman  stood  talking  by  the  bedside. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  such  a  reception, 
but  I  soon  grew  accustomed  to  it,  as  one  does  to 
everything. 

My  aunt  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Goodgroome,  who 
tried  my  voice,  and  pronounced  it  a  good  one  and 
well  managed,  though  lacking  in  finish  and  execu- 
tion ;  and  as  this  was  all  the  fault  he  could  find  I 
suppose  I  must  have  acquitted  myself  pretty  well, 
since  I  have  observed  that  it  is  very  hard  for  any 
one  of  his  profession  to  allow  merit  in  the  pupils  of 
another. 

"  You  must  learn  Italian  as  fast  as  you  can,  so  as 
to  learn  the  Italian  manner  of  singing,"  said  my 
aunt,  at  which  Mr.  Goodgroome  frowned  but  did 
not  speak. 

"  I  know  something  of  the  language  already," 
said  I.  "  My  mother  and  father  botli  spoke  it." 

"  Why,  you  are  quite  an  accomplished  young 
lady,"  said  my  aunt  playfully.  "  Can  you  draw  at 
all  ?" 

"Yes,  aunt,  a  little." 

"  You  must  have  lessons  of  Browne  by  and  by, 
but  not  at  present,  I  think.  I  don't  wish  you  to 
spend  too  much  time  at  lessons.  What  hours  can 
you  give  her,  Mr.  Goodgroome  ?" 

Mr.  Goodgroome  pulled  out  his  table-book,  and 
after  some  consideration  decided  that  he  could  give 
me  from  eight  to  nine  on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays. 

"  Why,  that  is  rather  early,"  said  my  aunt. 

' '  I  cannot  make  it  later, ' '  replied  the  professor, 


356  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

with  an  air  of  importance.  "  I  must  go  to  my 
Lady  Sandwich's  young  daughters  at  nine,  and  to 
AY  hi tehall  at  eleven.  But  I  can  take  from  five  to 
six  in  the  afternoon  if  it  will  suit  better." 

"  Nay,  that  is  worse  than  the  other,"  replied  my 
aunt  ;  so  it  was  settled  that  I  should  begin  my  les- 
sons at  eight  on  Tuesday  morning.  1  inwardly 
determined  that  I  would  spend  as  much  as  possible 
of  the  intervening  time  in  diligently  practising  my 
fingering  scales  and  trillos,  so  as  not  to  discredit  my 
mother's  teaching. 

I  soon  found,  however,  that  1  should  have  little 
time  to  practise.  My  Aunt  Jem  was  one  of  those 
people  who  find  quiet  the  most  intolerable  of  all 
things.  "When  she  was  not  out  herself,  she  would 
have  company  at  home,  and  when  she  had  no  one 
else  to  amuse  her,  I  must  devote  myself  to  that 
purpose.  Not  that  she  was  either  selfish  or  un- 
kind. She  had  the  making  of  a  noble  woman  in 
her,  had  poor  Aunt  Jem,  and  even  the  world  for 
which  she  lived  had  not  quite  spoiled  her.  But  re- 
flection was  not  agreeable  to  her,  and  diversion  was 
her  very  life.  Our  usual  course  of  life  was  this  : 
When  my  uncle  was  at  home  we  breakfasted  in  my 
aunt's  dressing-room  ;  when  he  was  not,  in  her  bed- 
room, which  she  seldom  quitted  till  ten  or  eleven 
o'clock,  and  where  she  would  give  audience  to  such 
tradespeople  as  it  was  convenient  for  her  to  see. 
Dressing  was  a  work  of  time,  thought,  and  much 
care,  for,  as  my  aunt  herself  observed,  she  was 
growing  older,  and  as  natural  beauty  waned  ona 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  357 

must  supply  its  place  by  art.  The  position  of  a 
patch  was  a  subject  of  five  minutes'  consideration, 
and  the  rising  of  a  pimple  a  cause  for  grave  alarm. 
When  the  important  business  was  at  last  concluded, 
we  usually  went  out  shopping.  In  one  of  these 
excursions  we  met  my  old  acquaintance  Mr.  Pepys, 
a  meeting  which  resulted  in  his  being  invited  with 
his  wife  to  dine  in  Covent  Garden. 

"  He  is  a  rising  man  and  in  a  good  deal  of  esti- 
mation at  court,"  said  my  aunt,  when  we  parted, 
"  and  his  wife  is  a  genteel,  harmless  little  body. 
Besides,  he  was  kind  to  your  mother,  and  one  must 
not  forget  old  friends." 

I  was  much  pleased,  both  at  the  attention  shown 
to  the  good  man  for  my  sake,  and  also  because  I 
hoped  I  might  hear  news  of  Andrew,  to  whom  my 
better  self  still  clung.  But  Mr.  Pepys  could  tell 
me  little  more  than  I  knew  already — that  the  ship  had 
gone  to  the  "West  Indies,  and  would  probably  also 
visit  New  England  before  her  return,  which  would 
occur  in  about  six  months.  My  Uncle  Charles  was 
at  home  and  we  had  a  very  pleasant  party.  I  sung 
for  Mr.  Pepys  and  with  him,  for  he  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  musician,  and  my  aunt  took  his  opinion  as  to 
her  choice  of  a  teacher  which  he  commended. 

In  the  afternoon  we  usually  went  into  the  park, 
paid  visits,  or  attended  some  show  or  exposition  of 
china  or  pictures,  or  we  went  to  some  auction  or 
other.  In  the  evening  we  either  went  out  or  enter- 
tained company  at  home,  in  which  case  we  had 
cards,  and  not  ^infrequently  the  play  ran  pretty 


35 8  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

high.  The  dean  and  Theo  came  to  one  of  these 
entertainments,  which  indeed  was  made  expressly 
for  them  ;  but  I  think  they  were  not  very  well 
pleased  with  what  they  saw,  for  Theo  sent  for  me 
t  he  next  day  and  was  earnest  for  me  to  return  home 
vv-ith  her  to  Exeter. 

I  told  her  with  many  thanks  that  I  could  not 
think  of  it — that  my  aunt  needed  me,  and  that  I  was 
happy  with  her. 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  said  Theo  gravely 
"  You  like  the  life,  and  that  makes  it  the  more 
dangerous  for  you." 

"  But  you  used  to  like  it  yourself,"  said  I. 

"Not  such  company  as  we  see  here,"  she 
answered,  and  then  after  a  little  she  added  in  a  low 
voice,  "  Vevette,  what  would  your  mother  advise  if 
she  were  here  ?  "WTiat  would  she  say  ?" 

I  was  vexed  at  being  reminded  of  what  was  one 
of  my  chief  drawbacks  in  my  present  life,  and 
answered  pettishly,  that  my  mother's  former  life 
and  circumstances  had  naturally  made  her  rather 
strict  and  melancholy  in  her  notions,  and  that  I 
could  not  think  any  one  was  a  better  Christian  for 
always  wearing  a  solemn  face  and  denying  one's  self 
every  pleasure.  Theo  looked  very  grave,  but  she 
said  no  more,  nor  did  she  again  ask  me  to  return 
with  her. 

About  a  fortnight  after  I  came  to  London  I  went 
with  my  aunt  to  a  grand  entertainment  at  the  house 
of  the  French  ambassador.  I  had  an  entirely  new 
dress  for  the  occasion,  and  wore  my  pearl  necklace 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          359 

which  my  lady  had  given  me.  My  aunt  was  very 
solicitous  that  I  should  look  my  best,  but  when  she 
saw  me,  she  professed  herself  quite  satisfied,  and 
presented  me  to  my  uncle  with  no  little  pride.  We 
found  the  street  filled  with  carriages,  and  the  usual 
crush  and  confusion  prevailing — horses  backing  and 
rearing,  coachmen  swearing  and  wheels  interlocking 
— but  we  reached  the  door  at  last,  and  made  our 
way  through  the  ranks  of  splendidly  dressed  ladies 
and  gentlemen  to  the  saloon  where  the  ambassador 
received  his  guests.  He  was  a  very  courtly  man, 
with  a  smile  and  a  compliment  for  all,  and  one  of 
the  handsomest  and  most  crafty  faces  I  ever  saw. 

"  And  this  is  my  young  countrywoman  of  whom 
I  have  heard,"  said  he,  addressing  himself  to  me. 
"  I  must  by  and  by  present  her  to  a  friend.  I  am 
proud  of  my  countrywoman,  madame.  Indeed, 
she  would  be  a  credit  to  any  nation  on  earth." 

"  There,  Vevette,  your  fame  is  established  as  a 
beauty,"  whispered  my  aunt,  as  the  crowd  pushed 
us  on,  ' '  since  monsieur  the  count  hath  pronounced 
such  an  eulogium  upon  it.  Is  not  this  a  splendid 
scene  ?" 

It  was  indeed,  and  my  eyes  wandered  from  one 
gay  group  to  another,  till  they  were  suddenly  arrested 
by  a  sight  which  for  a  moment  almost  made  my 
blood  stand  still.  "Was  it  my  father  himself,  or  was 
it  his  ghost — that  handsome  gentleman  in  the 
blazing  French  uniform  who  stood  regarding  me 
with  such  an  eager  gaze  ?  Could  it  be  that  he  had 
not  been  killed  after  all  ?  My  eyes  grew  dim  for  a 


360  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

moment,  and  when  I  looked  again  the  gentleman 
had  disappeared. 

"  What  ails  yon,  Yevettc  ?"  said  my  aunt,  in 
alarm  ;  "  yon  are  as  white  as  your  dress  !  Gentle- 
men, make  way  for  us,  1  beg,  my  niece  is  not  well." 

"Way  was  made  to  a  window,  and  I  was  placed  on 
a  seat  while  one  gentleman  brought  water  and 
another  wine,  and  ladies  proffered  essence  bottles, 
and  vinaigrettes.  I  recovered  myself  with  a  great 
effort,  for  I  was  quite  ashamed  of  the  commotion  I 
had  made.  However,  my  aunt  would  not  have  me 
move  at  once,  but  took  a  seat  near  me,  and  we  were 
soon  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  gallants.  Into  this 
circle  presently  came  my  Uncle  Charles  leading  the 
very  gentle Jiian  whose  resemblance  to  my  father 
had  upset  me.  It  was  not  so  close,  now  that  I  saw 
him  near,  though  it  was  still  very  striking.  I  saw 
that^he  was  older  than  my  father,  and  instantly 
guessed  who  he  was  before  my  TJncle  Charles  pre- 
sented him.  It  was  my  father's  oldest  brother,  the 
Marquis  de  Fayrolles. 

"And  this  is  my  niece,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of 
great  affection,  as  he  bent  over  me  and  took  my 
hand.  "  My  dear  Genevieve,  I  am  more  delighted 
than  I  can  express  at  this  meeting.  1  supposed 
from  what  I  heard  that  yon  and  your  poor  mother 
had  perished  in  your  attempt  to  escape  from  the 
sack  of  the  Tour  d'Antin.  I  came  down  the  next 
day  but  one,  too  late  to  save  the  life  of  my  unfor- 
tunate brother,  but  not  too  late,  I  am  glad  to  tell 
you,  to  do  justice  to  his  murderers." 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          361 

Then  my  uncle  had  come  to  our  rescue  after  all. 
This  was  the  conclusion  I  jumped  to.  I  made  my 
return  to  his  salutation,  and  inquired  after  Madame 
La  Marquise. 

"  She  is  not  at  all  well,  I  regret  to  say,"  was  the 
reply.  "  I  begin  to  fear  the  climate  of  England 
does  not  agree  with  her.  I  hope  to  make  you 
acquainted  with  her  another  day.  This  is  not  the 
place  for  family  affairs,  so  I  trust  you,  madame," 
bowing  profoundly  to  Aunt  Jem,  "  will  allow  our 
kinswoman  to  visit  my  wife  to-morrow." 

My  aunt  at  once  assented,  and  the  marquis 
chatted  on  easily  in  French  about  the  court,  the 
parks,  and  all  those  little  nothings  which  make  up 
talk  in  such  places.  He  led  my  aunt  and  myself  to 
the  supper  table,  and  placed  himself  between  us, 
paying  us  every  attention.  It  was  impossible  to 
withstand  his  manner,  which  had  all  my  father's 
heartiness  with  the  grace  which  can  only  be  acquired 
by  habitual  converse  with  the  best  society.  My 
aunt  was  the  envy  of  all  her  fine  acquaintance  for 
being  so  distinguished,  and  when  she  returned  home 
she  pulled  a  fine  diamond  ring  from  her  finger  and 
bestowed  it  upon  me,  saying  I  deserved  a  re- 
ward for  the  way  I  had  comported  myself  in  this, 
my  first  real  appearance  in  the  great  world. 

"  You  have  had  a  real  success,  and  there  is  not 
one  girl  in  ten  of  your  age  who  would  have  borne  it 
so  well,"  said  she  ;  "  but  what  upset  you  so  ?  Was 
it  the  heat,  or  are  your  stays  uneasy  ?  You  must 


362  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

not  let  Mercer  dress  you  too  tight.  It  will  make 
your  skin  look  muddy  and  your  nose  red." 

"  It  was  not  that,"  said  I,  laughing  a  little  ner- 
vously, for  I  was  very  tired.  "  I  saw  the  marquis 
in  the  crowd,  and  thought  it  was  my  father." 

"  There,  there,  child,  don't  give  way,"  said  my 
aunt,  alarmed  as  I  began  to  sob.  "  You  are  quite 
overwrought.  Put  her  to  bed,  Mercer,  and  give 
her  some  sal- volatile  and  lavender." 

Mercer  obeyed,  and  would  have  stayed  by  me  till 
I  fell  asleep,  but  this  I  would  not  allow.  I  wanted 
to  be  alone.  I  cried  awhile,  but  the  composing 
draught  at  last  took  effect,  and  I  fell  asleep  to 
dream  about  ambassadors,  balls,  and  my  new-found 
uncle,  who  was  strangely  and  uncomfortably  mixed 
up  with  my  father,  and  who  was  now  burying  me 
alive  in  the  vault  under  the  old  chapel,  while  Andrew 
held  the  light,  and  now  asking  Betty  about  me,  who 
was  telling  him  all  sorts  of  monstrous  fictions. 


CHAPTEK    XVII. 


ready 


MY     NEW     FRIENDS. 

AWOKE  in  the  morning  tired  enough  ; 
but  dressing  and  a  cup  of  coffee  refreshed 
me,  and  by  the  time  my  uncle's  carriage 
and   servants  came  for  me  I  was  quite 
to  attend  him.     The  Vevette  of  a  year  ago 


would  perhaps  have  breathed  a  prayer  for  guidance 
under  such  difficult  circumstances,  but  I  never  even 
thought  of  it.  I  was  carried  to  the  ambassador's 
residence,  and  led  thorough  more  than  one  grand 
apartment  to  the  room  where  my  new  uncle  and 
aunt  were  awaiting  me. 

My  aunt,  Madame  de  Fayrolles,  was  a  woman  of 
forty  or  thereabout,  elegantly  dressed  and  rouged 
in  a  way  that  made  me  open  my  eyes  at  first. 
Rouge  was  not  then  commonly  worn  in  England— 
scarcely  at  all,  in  truth,  save  by  such  kind  of 
madams  as  Lady  Castlemaine — but  in  France  it 
was  a  regular  part  of  the  toilette  of  a  lady  of 
quality,  and  was  worn  without  any  disguise.  She 
received  me  kindly,  kissing  me  on  both  cheeks,  and 
then  presenting  me  to  a  gentleman  in  a  semi-clerical 


364  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

dress,  whom  she  called  Father  Martien.  I  felt 
some  of  my  old  childish  terror  of  a  priest  revive,  as 
the  gentleman  bowed  to  me,  but  of  course  I  re- 
turned his  salute  politely.  After  a  few  words  he 
quitted  the  room,  saying  that  he  hoped  to  meet  me 
again  and  know  me  better. 

"  That  is  a  distinguished  man,"  said  madame,  as 
he  closed  the  door  behind  him.  "  He  is  the  am- 
bassador's confessor,  and  very  high  in  his  order. 
Men  say  he  is  as  like  to  be  general." 

"  General  of  what  ?"  I  asked.     My  aunt  stared. 

u  Of  the  Jesuits,  of  course — what  else  ?  But  I 
forget,  you  know  nothing  of  these  matters.  My  poor 
brother-in-law  !  Ah,  what  a  pity  he  was  so  obsti- 
nate !  But  we  will  not  talk  of  that  now,*'  catching 
a  warning  glance  from  her  husband.  u  Tell  me, 
petite,  how  old  art  thou  ?" 

I  told  her. 

"  And  they  have  not  yet  settled  thee  in  life  ?  Ah 
well,  so  much  the  better.  And  now  what  shall  we 
do  to  amuse  you  ?" 

I  could  not  help  thinking  my  aunt  very  charm- 
ing, in  spite  of  the  rouge  which  had  so  shocked  me 
at  first.  She  had  all  the  brightness  and  sparkle,  all 
the  grace  of  manner  of  a  genuine  French  woman, 
and  when  she  desired  to  please  she  was  certainly 
irresistible.  She  set  to  work  at  once  to  reform  my 
dress,  and  the  manner  of  wearing  my  hair,  ex- 
changing with  her  waiting-damsel  many  comments 
upon  my  good  looks.  Then  she  would  turn  out  all 
her  jewels  for  my  amusement,  and  bestowed  several 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          365 

elegant  trifles  upon  me,  besides  a  box  of  beautiful 
perfumed  gloves. 

"  I  will  divide  these  with  Aunt  Jemima,"  said 
I  ;  "  she  has  beautiful  hands." 

"  I^ay,  keep  them  for  yourself,  I  have  a  little 
cadeau  for  the  good  aunt — what  did  you  call  her  ?" 

"  Jemima,"  I  replied. 

"  All,  what  a  horror  of  a  name  !  But  no  mat- 
ter, so  she  is  kind  to  thee. "  And  my  aunt  began, 
while  displaying  all  her  fans  and  other  trinkets,  to 
question  me  about  my  own  affairs.  My  uncle,  who 
came  in,  soon  joined  in  the  conversation,  and  by 
easy  degrees,  and  almost  without  knowing  it,  they 
won  from  me  my  whole  family  history,  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  Then  my  uncle  in  his  turn,  began 
to  explain  matters,  as  he  said.  I  cannot,  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time,  recall  what  he  said  exactly,  but  he 
made  it  clearly  appear  that  his  conversion  to  the 
Romish  Church  was  a  matter  of  deep  conviction, 
and  an  act  of  quite  disinterested  faith,  which  had 
brought  upon  him  most  unmerited  obloquy  and  per- 
secution. He  told  me  he  had  been  on  his  way  to 
the  Tour  d'Antin  to  visit  my  father,  when  he  had 
been  met  by  the  news  of  the  demolition  of  the  cha- 
teau. 

"I  hurried  down  at  once,"  said  he.  "I  had 
hoped  to  induce  my  dear  brother,  if  not  to  conform, 
which  indeed,  knowing  his  disposition,  I  hardly 
dared  to  expect,  at  least  to  withdraw  quietly  and  in 
safety  either  to  Jersey  or  Geneva,  from  which  places 
he  could  easily  be  recalled  had  it  been  desirable. 


366  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

Judge,  my  dear  Genevieve,  of  my  feelings  when  I 
found  my  brother  dead,  his  house  a  mass  of  ruins, 
and  his  wife  and  child  fled  no  one  knew  whither. 
It  was  believed  that  you  had  put  to  sea  under  the 
guidance  of  the  young  English  gentleman,  and  that 
you  had  all  perished  together.  A  fisherman,  who 
had  been  driven  over  to  Jersey  by  the  storm,  re- 
ported seeing  a  boat  bottom  upward  and  some 
floating  articles  of  female  apparel  which  con- 
firmed me  in  the  idea,  and  I  mourned  you  as  dead 
till  I  met  you  last  night.  I  was  at  once  struck  with 
your  resemblance  to  our  family,  and  on  inquiry 
found  that  you  were  indeed  my  niece." 

I  need  not  repeat  all  that  was  said  to  me  that 
day.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  I  returned  home  at 
night  completely  bewitched  by  these  new  relatives. 
I  found  Aunt  Jem  a  little  out  of  humor  at  my  stay- 
ing away  so  long,  but  she  was  easily  pacified  by  my 
excuses,  and  delighted  by  the  boxes  of  gloves  and 
of  French  comfits  I  had  brought  her  from  my  Aunt 
Zenobie.  French  gloves  were  then,  as  they  are 
now,  very  much  better  than  any  made  in  Eng- 
land. 

This  was  the  first  of  many  succeeding  visits,  in 
the  course  of  which  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Fay- 
rolles  gained  more  and  more  of  my  confidence  and 
regard.  They  were  very  attentive  to  Aunt  Join 
also,  but  she  did  not  like  them  as  well  as  I  did.  I 
well  remember  a  remark  of  hers  with  which  her 
husband  was  not  at  all  pleased. 

"  They  are  fishing  for  you,  Vevette.    They  mean 


Chevaliers  Daughter.          367 

to  make  a  convert  of  you,  and  then  what  will  the 
sailor  say  ?' ' 

"Nonsense,  Jem,"  said  my  Uncle  Charles 
sharply.  "  What  interest  have  they  in  the  mat- 
ter ?  Why  should  you  wish  to  set  Yevette  against 
her  father's  family  ?" 

"  I  do  not  wish  it,"  returned  Aunt  Jem,  looking 
at  once  hart  and  surprised,  for  Uncle  Charles, 
though  often  moody,  was  seldom  anytliing  but  kind 
to  his  wife,  of  whom  he  was  both  fond  and  proud. 
"  I  am  sure  it  is  but  natural  they  should  wish  to 
bring  the  child  to  their  own  way  of  thinking.  I 
am  not  sure  but  I  should  like  to  be  of  that  way 
myself,"  she  added,  sighing  a  little.  "It  is  a 
comfortable  kind  of  faith  after  all.  One  puts 
one's  self  into  the  hands  of  a  priest,  and  then  one  is 
sure  of  salvation. ' ' 

I  might  have  answered  that  this  salvation  was  a 
thing  that  a  devout  Roman  Catholic  never  could  be 
sure  of,  since  his  salvation  depends  not  alone  upon 
the  all-perfect  Saviour,  but  upon  the  offices  of  a 
man  like  himself  who  may  be  altogether  a  sacrile- 
gious person  ;  but  I  had  become  very  shy  of  speak- 
ing upon  religious  subjects.  I  still,  it  is  true,  kept 
up  a  form  of  devotion  morning  and  evening,  but 
with  my  conscience  constantly  burdened  by  unre- 
pented  sins  which  I  would  not  even  confess  to  be 
sins,  my  prayers  could  be  only  the  emptiest  of 
forms.  My  Bible  lay  unread  day  after  day,  and 
though  I  did  indeed  go  to  church  once  every  Sun- 
day, I  did  not  greatly  profit  by  that.  •  It  was  a  time 


368  7^ he  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

of  great  dead  ness  in  spiritual  matters  in  the  Church 
of  England,  though  there  were  a  few  faithful 
preachers  who  shone  as  lights  in  a  dark  place.  But 
o;ir  parish  clergyman  was  not  one  of  them.  Some- 
times he  gave  us  a  disquisition  on  the  heresies  of 
the  first  ages  in  the  church,  but  his  sermons  in  gen- 
eral were  either  upon  the  divine  right  of  kings  and 
the  wickedness  of  those  who  ventured  in  anything 
to  oppose  them,  or  else  dry  lectures  upon  morals  to 
the  effect  that  vice  was  bad  and  virtue  was  good. 
I  heard  about  the  Thcban  legionaries  till  I  wished 
they  had  been  massacred  long  before  they  were,  so 
that  they  might  have  been  lost  in  the  mists  of  an- 
tiquity. As  to  the  moral  lectures  which  formed  a 
great  part  of  the  preaching  of  the  day,  they  were 
not  like  to  have  any  great  influence  so  long  as  peo- 
ple saw  the  king,  an  open  and  shameless  conterrmer 
of  the  laws  of  God  and  man,  publicly  receiving  the 
sacrament,  while  his  attendants  meantime  laughed 
and  chatted  among  themselves  as  if  they  had  been 
in  a  playhouse,  the  Duke  of  York  himself  setting  the 
example.  As  I  said,  there  were  glorious  exceptions 
— men  who  shunned  not  fearlessly  to  declare  the 
whole  council  of  God,  and  to  rebuke  sin  wherever 
they  found  it,  but  these  were  not  the  rule,  and  they 
aid  not  come  in  my  way.  Sunday  was  a  long  day 
to  us  at  my  aunt's,  though  we  did  our  best  to 
shorten  it  by  reading  romance  and  plays,  playing  at 
tables,  and  seeing  company  at  home. 

My  visit  to  Madame  de  Fayrolles  was  soon  re- 
peated, and  it'came  to  be  an  understood  tiling  that 


The  Chevalier  s  Da^tghter.  369 

I  should  spend  at  least  two  days  in  the  week  with 
her.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Father  Martien, 
as  he  was  called,  and  found  him  a  very  polished, 
agreeable  gentleman.  He  was  a  Frenchman  by 
birth,  but  educated  in  Florence.  "We  soon  fel] 
upon  the  subject  of  Italian  literature,  and  he  ven- 
tured gently  to  criticise  my  pronunciation,  and 
offered  his  services  to  correct  it  by  reading  with  me 
two  or  three  times  a  week.  I  had  always  been  fond 
of  the  language,  and  accepted  the  offer  with  enthu- 
siasm. I  hardly  know  how  we  began  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  religion,  but  we  were  in  the  midst  of  it  be- 
fore I  was  aware.  I  had  been  well  furnished,  like 
every  Huguenot  child,  with  abundance  of  answers  to 
every  argument  that  could  be  brought  forward  upon 
the  Romish  side  ;  but,  alas,  the  armor  was  loose  and 
dented  from  neglect,  and  the  sword  rusty  and  out  of 
use.  My  faith  in-  Christianity  itself  had  been  in 
some  degree  shaken  by  the  sneers  and  arguments  I 
had  heard  from  Lewis,  and  also  from  my  Uncle 
Charles,  who  was  a  worshipper  of  Mr.  Hobbes.  I 
had  come  to  think  that  one  form  of  faith  was  per- 
haps as  good  as  another — that  so  long  as  men  led 
good  lives,  their  opinions  did  not  very  much  mat- 
ter, and  so  forth.  When  I  tried  to  recall  my  old 
arguments  I  remembered  other  tilings  which  roused 
my  conscience,  and  made  rue  wretched,  that  I  was 
glad  to  let  them  rest  again.  I  was  persuaded  to 
hear  mass  in  the  chapel  of  the  French  ambassador, 
that  I  might  enjoy  the  music.  Aunt  Jem  herself 
went  to  the  chapel  of  the  queen  for  the  same  rea- 


37°  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

son,  and  I  soon  discovered  that  she  was   leaning 
the  same  way  as  myself. 

"  Surely  in  vain  the  net  is  spread  in  the  sight  of 
any  bird."  One  might  think  so  certainly,  and  yet 
how  often  do  we  see  nets  spread  in  plain  daylight, 
and  the  silly  birds  walking  straight  into  them. 
Every  day  I  grew  more  and  more  indifferent  to  the 
faith  in  which  I  had  been  educated,  and  for  which 
my  father  had  died.  Every  da}'  I  saw  new  reason 
to  regret  the  bigotry — so  I  learned  to  call  it — which 
had  brought  so  many  misfortunes  upon  our  family. 
Every  day  I  grew  more  attached  to  my  uncle  and 
aunt,  and  came  more  under  their  influence.  My 
Aunt  Jem  even  grew  a  little  jealous,  and  murmured 
that  it  was  rather  hard  she  should  have  so  little 
of  my  company,  when  she  had  been  the  means  of 
my  coming  to  town  in  the  first  place  ;  but  a  little 
attention  from  the  ambassador's  family,  and  a  few 
introductions  to  great  people,  and  cards  to  great 
entertainments,  eoon  reconciled  her  to  the  state  of 
things.  As  to  my  Uncle  Charles,  I  am  sorry  to 
write  it,  but  I  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  he 
was  playing  into  the  hands  of  Monsieur  de  Fayrolles 
all  the  time.  He  was  deep  in  debt,  and  embarrass- 
ments of  all  sorts,  caused  by  his  high  play  and 
extravagant  style  of  living,  and  I  believe  that  he 
deliberately  turned  me  o  /cr  to  my  French  relations 
in  consideration  of  being  relieved  of  some  of  the 
most  pressing  of  these  liabilities. 

One  thing  held  me  back  from  taking  the  last  step 
to  which  I  was  now  being  gently  urged  and  per- 


The- Chevalier s  Daicghter.          371 

suaded — and  that  one  thing  was  my  love  for  An- 
drew. I  still  wore  his  ring,  and  still  watched 
vainly  and  with  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred  for 
news  of  him.  The  news  came  at  last. 

I  was  breakfasting  in  my  aunt's  bedroom  as  usual, 
for  Aunt  Jem  grew  more  and  more  indolent  in  her 
habits  and  often  did  not  rise  till  noon.     Her  health 
was  failing  even  then,  and  she  had  very  bad  nights, 
but  she  would  never  confess  that  she  was  ill.     She 
had,  however,  so  far  yielded  to  pain  and  weakness 
as  to  remain  at  home  for  a  day  or  two.     I  was 
breakfasting  with  her,  as  I  said,  and  trying  to  en- 
tertain her  with  accounts  of  what  I  had  seen  and 
heard  when  out  with  Madame  de  Fayrolles  the  day 
before,   when  my  uncle   entered   the   room.      He 
saluted  my  aunt  with  his  usual  kindness,  and  then 
asked  me  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"  And  what  is  the  news  at  court  ?'•'  said  my  aunt. 

"  ^Nothing  very  special,  that  I  know  of.  One  of 
our  ships  from  the  West  Indies  has  come  in,  and  by 
the  way,  Yevette,  I  heard  of  an  old  friend  of 
yours — " 

My  heart  beat  fast,  and  my  hand  trembled  so  that 
I  Aras  fain  to  set  down  my  cup  of  chocolate. 

II  Your  old  friend  and  flame,  our  good  cousin, 
has  done  a  very  wise  thing,"  he  continued,  playing 
the  while   with   my   aunt's  little  dog.      "  He   has 
married  the  daughter  of  a  rich  planter  with  I  know 
not  how  many  thousand  slaves  and  acres,  and  means 
to  settle  in  those  parts  so  soon  as  he  can  arrange  his 


372  The   Chevalier  Daughters. 

affairs.      What  say  yon,  chick  ?     Shall  I  bespeak  a 
willow  garland  for  you  ?" 

"  I  have  no  occasion  for  it,  thank  you,"  1 
answered,  with  a  calmness  which  surprised  myself. 
That  affair  was  broken  off  by  my  mother  long  ago." 

"  Of  course,"  said  my  aunt ;  "  Vevette  has  too 
much  sense  to  regret  that  her  cousin  should  look 
out  for  himself.  I  hope  to  see  her  make  a  much 
better  marriage  than  that.  She  has  improved  won- 
derfully of  late,  and  would  grace  any  station." 

"  But  are  you  quite  sure  this  news  is  true?"  I 
asked  quietly.  "  It  will  be  a  great  grief  to  An- 
drew's mother  and  sisters  if  he  should  settle 
abroad." 

"  I  dare  say  they  will  reconcile  themselves,  see 
ing  how  much  he  gains  by  it,"  replied  my  uncle 
carelessly.  "  Besides,  he  may  not  remain  abroad 
always.  I  dare  say  in  time  he  will  return  to  Eng- 
land, rebuild  the  old  tumble-down  court  at  Tre 
Madoc,  and  found  a  great  estate.  Report  says  the 
young  lady  is  beautiful  as  well  as  rich,  and  that  it 
was  quite  a  love  match.  They  believe  iu  such 
things  out  there  it  seems." 

"  You  believed  in  them  once,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Yes,  in  old  days  when  you  were  young,  my 
love  ;  but  there  are  no  such  things  now,  because 
there  are  no  more  such  women." 

My  poor  aunt  brightened  at  this  speech  and  the 
caress  which  accompanied  it.  All  of  her  that  was 
not  spoiled  by  the  world  clung  to  her  husband. 

Sorrow  in  itself  has  no  power  for  good,  but  only 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter.          373 

for  evil.  It  is  only  while  we  look  not  at  the  things 
that  are  seen,  but  at  those  which  are  unseen,  that  it 
works  for  us  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal 
weight  of  glory.  The  things  unseen  had  become 
to  me  more  unreal  than  any  dream,  and  conse- 
quently this  great  blow  only  hardened  and  embit- 
tered instead  of  softening  my  heart.  I  said  to  my- 
self that  there  was  no  truth  or  trust  in  anything — 
that  Andrew  was  no  better  than  the  rest.  I  cast 
myself  loose  from  all  the  considerations  which 
had  hitherto  restrained  me,  and  gave  myself  wholly 
over  to  the  influence  of  Monsieur  and  Madame 
do  Fayrolles,  and  especially  of  Father  Martien. 
Aunt  Zenobie,  with  that  consummate  tact  which  dis- 
tinguished her,  and  which  I  have  sometimes  even 
thought  served  her  instead  of  a  soul,  never  alluded 
to  the  subject  of  Andrew's  marriage,  and  never 
showed  that  she  had  even  heard  of  it,  except  by  re- 
doubling the  amount  of  petting  and  caresses  she 
bestowed  on  me.  Father  Martien,  on  the  other 
hand,  hinted  delicately  at  similar  sorrows  he  had 
himself  undergone  in  early  life,  and  spoke  of  the 
consolations  the  church  had  to  offer  to  wounded 
hearts,  of  the  tender  sympathy  of  the  mother  of 
God,  and  the  comfort  of  having  a  woman  like  my- 
self to  whom  I  might  confide  all  my  sorrows,  and 
who  could  understand  my  heart.  I  might  have 
said  that  he  who  made  the  woman's  heart  was  at 
least  as  likely  to  understand  it  as  any  one  else,  and 
that  women  were  not,  as  a  general  thing,  more 
tender  to  women  than  the  other  sex.  But  the  truth 


374  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

was  I  was  eager  to  be — 1  will  not  say  convinced, 
but  persuaded.  My  soul  was  a  fountain  of  bitter 
waters— -a  spring  of  boiling  rebellion  against 
Heaven,  and  anger  against  man.  I  only  wished  to 
divide  myself  as  far  as  possible  from  Andrew  and 
to  go  where  I  never  need  hear  his  name.  I  allowed 
myself  to  go  constantly  to  mass  with  my  aunt,  to 
listen  to  Father  Martien's  arguments  with  compla- 
cency, and  to  give  good  hopes  to  my  French  friends 
that  I  meant  to  return  to  the  bosom  of  the  true 
church. 

Another  event  occurred  about  this  time,  which 
had  the  effect  of  throwing  me  still  more  completely 
into  the  hands  of  Madame  de  Fayrolles.  My  Aunt 
Jemima  died.  As  I  have  before  hinted,  she  had 
long  been  ailing,  though  she  had  striven  against  her 
malady,  and  concealed  its  ravages  with  all  the  force 
of  her  will.  But  no  human  will  is  of  any  avail 
when  death  knocks  at  the  door.  The  day  came 
when  she  was  obliged  to  keep  her  bed  and  acknowl- 
edge herself  ill,  and  from  that  time  her  decay  was 
very  rapid.  It  was  most  pitiable  to  see  how  she 
clung  to  that  world  which  was  slipping  away  from 
her — to  the  miserable  crumbling  idols  which  she 
had  worshipped,  but  in  which  there  was  no  help. 
She  would  be  partly  dressed  every  day,  would  see 
those — they  were  not  many — who  called  upon  her 
— would  hear  all  the  news  of  the  court  and  the 
town.  Her  gentlewoman  Mercer,  who  was  some- 
thing of  a  religious  person  in  her  way,  wished  her  to 
have  a  clergyman  come  to  read  prayers,  but  Aunt 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          375 

Jem  refused.  She  was  not  as  bad  as  that,  she  said  ; 
there  was  plenty  of  time  ;  she  was  not  going  to  die. 
She  would  be  better  when  spring  came — in  truth, 
she  was  much  better  already.  Alas,  poor  lady,  her 
death-warrant  was  signed  and  the  messenger  was  at 
the  door.  Her  end  came  very  suddenly  at  last. 
There  was  barely  time  to  send  for  a  clergyman,  and 
when  he  came,  her  speech  was  gone,  though  she  had 
her  senses  and  her  eyes  wandered  from  one  face  to 
another  in  agonized  appeal  for  the  help  which  no 
mortal  could  give.  Mercer  in  her  hurry  had 
brought  not  our  parish  clergyman,  but  her  own,  a 
serious  and  I  believe  truly  religious  young  man, 
who  tried  to  direct  my  aunt's  thoughts  and  hopes  to 
the  only  sure  foundation,  but  she  hardly  attended, 
and  we  could  not  be  sure  even  that  she  understood. 
Surely  there  is  no  sight  of  martyrdom  for  the  truth's 
sake  so  terrible,  so  pitiable,  as  the  death-bed  of  one 
who,  having  given  his  whole  heart  and  mind  to  the 
world,  is  called  upon  to  leave  it  forever. 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

A    GREAT    STEP. 

Y  Aunt  Jem's  death  was,  of  course,  a  great 
shock  to  me,  and  might  well  have  opened 
iny  eyes  as  to  the  course  wherein  I  was 
walking,  but  I  would  not  have  them 
opened.  In  the  state  of  mind  I  was  at  that  time,  it 
seemed  to  me  only  a  new  injury.  I  was  like  one 
possessed.  In  the  midst  of  all  my  worldliness  and 
backsliding  my  heart  had  clung  to  Andrew,  and  I 
had  believed  in  his  faithfulness  and  uprightness. 
Now  he  turned  out  no  better  than  the  rest.  There 
was  no  truth,  in  anything.  My  father  and  mother 
had  served  the  Lord  faithfully,  and  how  had  they 
been  rewarded  ?  If  they  had  indeed  served  him 
aright,  would  he  not  have  stretched  forth  his  hand 
to  help  and  deliver  them  ?  Thus  I  reasoned,  con- 
temning the  generation  of  his  children,  and  wilfully 
shutting  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  the  Lord  nowhere 
in  the  New  Testament  promises  exemption  from 
sorrow  and  the  cross  in  this  world  as  a  reward  fo/ 
faithful  service.  There  is  no  person  so  open  to  the 
attacks  of  Satan  as  a  professed  and  enlightened 
Christian  who  is  living  in  known  and  wilful  sin. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          377 

The  first  effect  of  my  aunt's  death  was  to  throw 
me  more  completely  into  the  hands  of  Madame  de 
Fayrolles.  I  was  very  unwell  after  the  funeral,  and 
indeed  kept  my  bed  for  several  days.  As  soon  as  I 
was  able  to  be  up,  madame  came  to  me  full  of 
affection  and  of  caresses.  She  informed  me  that 
she  and  her  husband  were  going  to  travel  to  Bath 
and  to  several  other  watering-places,  and  that  she 
had  arranged  to  take  me  with  her.  My  health  and 
spirits  would  be  all  the  better  for  the  change,  and 
my  uncle  had  given  his  consent. 

"  So  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  get  ready, 
and  we  will  set  out  in  a  few  days,"  she  concluded. 
"  Have  you  an  attendant,  or  shall  I  provide  one  ?" 

Kow  Mercer  had  waited  upon  me  since  my  aunt's 
death,  my  own  damsel  having  gone  to  a  more  lucra- 
tive place.  She  had  tended  me  with  the  most  de- 
voted kindness,  and  I  had  become  greatly  attached 
to  her  ;  but  when  I  asked  her  whether  she  would 
accompany  me  on  my  journey,  to  uiy  surprise  and 
chagrin  she  flatly  refused. 

''But  why?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  Mrs,  d'Antin,  .the  truth  is  this,"  said 
Mercer :  "  I  am  fond  of  travelling,  it  is  true,  and 
1  like  you.  You  have  alawys  been  a  good  young 
lady  to  me.  But—  1  mean  no  disrespect — I  do  not 
like  that  French  lady,  and  I  like  her  attendants  still 
less.  Besides — " 

"  Well,  besides  what?"  I  asked  a  little  impa- 
tiently ;  "  besides  is  always  the  real  reason,  I  find." 

"  Besides,  madame,  I  should  not  think  it  right," 


3/8  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

added  Mercer,  turning  very  red,  though  she  spoke 
with  great  resolution.  "  I  have  lived  too  much  for 
the  follies  of  this  world  as  it  is.  I  know  I  have  a 
liking  for  them,  and  am  therefore  best  out  of  their 
way.  Some  words  your  blessed  mother  said  to  me 
\vhen  she  was  here,  and  I  was  waiting  upon  her, 
stuck  in  my  mind  and  first  made  me  think  of  some- 
thing beyond  this  life,  and  my  poor  dear  lady's 
death  has  been  another  warning  to  me  about  living 
for  this  world.  My  sister  has  a  ladies'  boarding- 
school  at  Hackney,  in  which  I  can  invest  my  sav- 
ings, and  I  can  be  a  help  to  her  in  teaching  the 
ladies  to  work  and  in  looking  after  their  dress  and 
manners.  She  will  be  very  glad  to  have  me  with 
her,  and  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  do  some  good  in 
the  world  before  I  leave  it." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  I  said  petulantly,  "if  you 
prefer  teaching  cross  and  satin  stitch  to  stupid  girls, 
and  seeing  that  they  comb  their  hair  and  put  on 
clean  linen,  to  attending  upon  and  travelling  with 
me—" 

"  I  do  not  prefer  it,  madam,"  answered  Mercer. 
"  J  choose  it  because  I  know  that  I  shall  be  putting 
:uyself  out  of  the  way  of  temptation,  and  into  the 
way  of  doing  good.  Besides,  madame,  I  am  a  sim- 
ple unlearned  woman  who  does  not  know  how  to 
answer  for  her  faith,  and  to  say  the  truth  I  would  not 
like  to  trust  myself  among  a  family  all  made  up  of 
Papists." 

"You  are  very  bigoted,"  said  I,  in  a  superior 
tone.  "  Don't  you  suppose  there  are  as  good 


The  Chevalier  s  Daiig  liter.          379 

Christians  among  Papists  as  you  call  them,  as  there 
are  among  Protestants  ?  Don't  you  believe  a 
Papist  can  be  saved  ?" 

"As  to  that,"  answered  Mercer  readily,  "that 
there  are  those  among  them  that  live  up  to  their 
lights,  such  as  they  are,  I  don't  deny,  but  I  don't 
say  nor  believe  that  they  are  as  good  Christians  as 
they  would  be  if  their  lights  were  brighter.  As  to 
their  being  saved,  that  is  no  business  of  mine.  I 
know  that  the  Scriptures  are  very  hard  upon  idola- 
ters, especially  those  idolators  who  might  know  bet- 
ter." 

' '  But  the  Papists  do  not  worship  images, ' '  I  said. 
"  The  veneration  of  holy  images  is  permitted  be- 
cause this  veneration  is  not  paid  to  the  image  itself, 
but  to  that  which  it  represents. ' ' 

"  But  the  second  commandment  is  explicit  about 
that,"  returned  Mercer.  "  That  very  veneration 
is  forbidden,  because  we  are  not  to  bow  down  to 
them.  Besides  if  there  is  nothing  in  the  image  it- 
self, why  do  they  venerate  one  image  so  much  more 
than  another  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  are  a  great  casuist,"  said  I.  "I  won- 
der you  do  not  take  orders  instead  of  going  into  a 
school.  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  you  think  it 
will  be  a  fine  thing  to  set  up  for  yourself  and  to 
have  a  parcel  of  young  ladies  to  govern." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  madainc,"  answered  Mercer, 
with  enough  of  dignity  to  make  me  ashamed  of  my 
petulance.  "  If  you  were  to  remain  here  in  Lon- 
don or  to  go  into  the  country,  even  down  to  that 


380-          The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

barbarous  Cornwall,  that  mj  poor  dear  lady  dreaded 
so  much,  I  would  give  up  all  thoughts  of  going 
into  the  school,  and  stay  with  you  as  long  as  you 
wished,  and  that  for  your  dear  mother's  sake  as 
well  as  your  own  ;  but  into  the  family  of  Madame 
de  Fayrolles  I  will  not  go.  And  I  do  beg  and  en- 
treat you,  Mrs.  Yevette,  to  think  twice  before  you 
do  so.  Think  of  what  your  mother  would  say — 
think  !" 

But  the  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  a 
call  from  my  aunt.  She  did  not  seem  at  all  dis- 
pleased when  I  told  her  of  Mercer's  decision. 

"It  is  just  as  well,"  said  she.  "  Of  course,  if 
you  wished  for  the  good  woman,  and  she  desired  to 
come,  I  should  say  nothing  against  it  ;  but  it  would 
not  have  been  comfortable  for  her  or  you.  But  I 
wonder  she  should  refuse  so  good  an  offer. ' ' 

"  It  was  a  case  of  conscience,  I  believe,"  said  I. 
"  She  was  afraid  of  being  converted." 

"  Oh,  I  understand.  Well,  petite,  it  is  just  as 
well.  I  shall  have  no  difficulty.  You  shall  take 
my  second  svoman,  who  has  been  well  trained  and 
is  an  accomplished  seamstress  and  hair-dresser.  So, 
Mrs.  Mercer,"  as  that  damsel  entered  the  room — 
"  you  will  not  go  with  your  young  lady  because  you 
are  afraid  of  being  converted.  Does  not  that  in 
itself  show  you  how  weak  your  cause  is,  and  how 
conscious  you  are  of  its  weakness  ?" 

Madame  spoke  smilingly,  and  Mercer  answered 
also  with  a  twinkle  of  the  eye. 

"  If  I  might  venture  to  put  a  case,  madame  ?" 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          381 

"  Go  on,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Suppose,  madame,  one  of  your  own  family,  a 
woman  neither  very  bright  nor  very  learned,  should 
be  offered  a  service  in  a  Protestant  family,  where 
she  would  be  likely  all  the  time  to  hear  her  own 
faith  attacked  by  an  accomplished  Protestant  minis- 
ter— what  would  your  ladyship  advise  her  to  do  ?" 

"  Fairly  posed,"  returned  my  aunt,  laughing 
good-naturedly.  "  Well,  well,  I  will  not  urge 
you.  But  at  least  accept  this  little  remembrance 
from  me,"  she  added,  drawing  out  a  very  elegant 
little  etui,  with  pencil  tablets  and  all  complete. 
"  It  will  be  useful  to  you  and  is  valuable  in  itself." 

Mercer  accepted  the  present  with  many  thanks, 
and  retired. 

"  That  is  a  good  soul,"  said  my  aunt.  "  What 
a  pity  she  is  not  a  Catholic  ?  She  might  have  a 
real  vocation. ' ' 

The  next  day  I  removed  to  the  lodgings  which 
my  uncle  and  aunt  had  been  inhabiting  for  some 
time,  and  my  uncle's  establishment  was  broken  up. 
He  gave  me  all  my  poor  aunt's  wardrobe,  except 
her  most  valuable  jewels,  and  I  in  turn  bestowed 
upon  Mercer  such  of  the  things  as  were  likely  to  be 
useful  to  her,  together  with  a  number  of  books  of 
devotion  which  had  belonged  to  Aunt  Jem's 
mother.  Mercer  was  profuse  in  her  thanks,  and 
we  parted  the  best  of  friends.  I  visited  the  good 
woman  many  years  afterward,  and  found  her  at  the 
head  of  the  school  which  she  had  entered,  and 
though  an  old  lady,  still  hale  and  strong,  and  ruling 


382  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

her  little  kingdom  with  a  wise  and  vigorous  hand. 
I  took  from  among  her  young  ladies,  one  to  be 
waiting-gentlewoman  to  myself  and  my  eldest 
daughter,  and  I  have  never  had  reason  to  regret 
the  choice. 

I  had  written  to  my  Lord  Stantoun  asking  per-  * 
mission  to  stay  for  a  while  with  Madame  de  Fay- 
rolles,  and  received  a  speedy  answer,  as  some  one 
from  the  neighborhood  was  coming  direct  to  Lon- 
don. My  lord  evidently  wrote  in  a  good  deal  of 
irritation,  and  his  letter  was  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  not  the  least  objection  to  my  residing  with 
Madame  de  Fayrolles  since  from  all  he  could  hear, 
she  was  a  woman  of  reputation.  He  only  hoped 
she  had  no  sons  to  be  bewitched — this  sentence  was 
scratched  out,  but  I  could  read  it.  He  sent  me 
some  money  for  my  private  purse  and  would  remit 
more  if  I  needed  it.  In  short,  it  was  plain  that  my 
lord  dreaded  nothing  so  much  just  now  as  having 
me  returned  on  his  hands.  Theo,  on  the  contrary, 
who  wrote  at  the  same  time,  gave  me  a  most  warm 
and  pressing  invitation  to  make  my  home  with  her, 
as  long  as  I  pleased,  and  she  begged  me  to  think 
twice  before  placing  myself  wholly  in  the  hands  of  , 
Madame  de  Fayrolles.  I  shall  not  repeat  her  argu- 
ments, though  they  were  all  good  and  wise.  In- 
deed, I  hardly  read  them  myself.  I  could  not  en- 
dure the  idea  of  returning  to  Devonshire  on  any 
terms. 

I  found  a  luxurious  apartment  prepared  for  me 
in  the  house  Monsieur  de  Fayrolles  had  taken  for 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          383 

the  season,  and  here  I  remained  for  some  two  or 
three  weeks,  coaxed  and  flattered  to  the  top  of  my 
bent.  Every  means  was  used  to  attach  me  to  my 
new  friends,  and  separate  me  from  old  ones. 
Neither  my  lord  nor  Theo  said  a  word  about  An- 
drew, and  I  had  not  heard  a  word  from  Tre  Madoc 
in  a  long  time.  I  had  asked  Mr.  Pepys  about  An- 
drew, and  he  admitted  that  he  had  heard  the  story 
of  his  approaching  marriage  from  excellent  author- 
ity, and  believed  it  to  be  true. 

From  this  time  I  became  like  one  desperate.  I 
put  away  my  French  Bible,  so  dear  as  having  been 
my  mother's,  and  the  little  brown  English  prayer- 
book  she  had  carried  off  in  our  hasty  flight  from 
the  Tour  d'Antin.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind 
to  destroy  them,  so  I  made  them  into  a  package, 
sealed  them  up,  and  committed  them  to  Mercer's 
care,  from  whom  I  reclaimed  them  long  afterward. 
I  read  only  the  books  of  controversy  and  devotion 
supplied  to  me  by  Father  Martien.  I  began  to  use  a 
rosary,  and  to  fancy  that  I  found  comfort  and  help 
in  praying  to  the  virgin.  I  was  quite  ready  to 
have  made  a  profession  of  my  new  faith  at  this 
time,  but  to  my  surprise  and  disappointment, 
Father  Martien  put  me  off.  He  said  I  had  not  had 
time  to  know  my  own  mind  or  to  receive  proper  in- 
struction. The  truth  was,  I  believe,  he  did  not 
think  it  would  be  very  safe  either  for  my  uncle  or 
himself.  There  was  in  England  a  growing  jealousy 
of  Roman  Catholics  and  their  influence,  a  jealousy 
well  founded  enough  in  itself,  though  it  culminated 


384  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

afterward  in  the  follies  and  wickedness  of  the  so- 
called  Popish  plot.  It  would  be  dangerous  to  have 
it  known  that  a  young  lady  of  good  family,  a  ward 
of  my  Lord  Stantoun's,  had  been  induced  to  abandon 
the  English  for  the  Romish  Church. 

This  refusal,  however,  only  increased  my  eager- 
ness. I  really  persuaded  myself  that  I  embraced 
all  those  dogmas  which  I  had  been  educated  to  re- 
gard with  horror,  as  monstrous  and  profane.  My 
aunt,  while  greatly  edified  by  my  devotion,  was  a 
little  alarmed  at  it.  It  was  at  that  time  no  part  of 
her  plan  to  have  me  become  a  religious,  as  she 
called  it.  She  took  me  out  with  her  a  great  deal, 
and  paid  great  attention  to  my  dress  and  manners. 
Both  she  and  my  uncle  were  very  kind  and  indul- 
gent, but  they  contrived  to  keep  me  in  a  kind  of 
honorable  restraint — a  restraint  so  gentle  that  I 
never  felt  it  at  all.  I  was  not  permitted  to  visit  by 
myself  any  of  the  young  ladies  of  my  own  age 
whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  at  my  Aunt 
Jemima's,  and  though  my  friends  were  made  wel- 
come and  treated  with  great  courtesy,  yet  some- 
how their  visits  gradually  fell  off,  and  I  saw  them 
no  more. 

In  a  few  weeks  we  visited  the  Bath,  as  my  aunt 
had  proposed,  and  remained  for  some  time  seeing  a 
good  deal  of  gay  company.  From  thence  we  went 
to  Epsom,  at  which  place  the  king  was  residing, 
though  he  kept  no  court  and  had  very  few  about 
him,  save  the  very  most  dissolute  of  his  courtiers, 
for  he  had  by  this  time  thrown  off  all  pretence  to 


The  Chevalier  s  Daitghttr.          385 

decency  of  conduct.  It  was  at  Epsom  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Fajrolles  received  a  summons  to  return  at 
once  to  France.  It  seems  lie  had  some  sort  of  com- 
mand over  the  household  guards,  from  which  com- 
mand he  had  been  absent  longer  than  his  royal  mas- 
ter approved. 

My  uncle  received  this  notice  in  the  morning  at 
the  hands  of  Father  Harden,  who  had  come  down 
with  some  letters  from  the  French  ambassador.  In 
the  evening  my  gentlewoman  came  to  me  with  a 
message  desiring  my  immediate  presence  in  my 
aunt's  room.  I  found  her  seated  beside  her  hus- 
band, while  Father  Martien  stood  behind  her  chair. 
The  faces  of  all  three  wore  a  very  solemn  expres- 
sion, and  I  trembled,  I  hardly  knew  why.  My 
aunt  bade  me  be  seated.  Zelie  placed  a  chair  for 
me  and  then  at  a  sign  from  her  mistress  withdrew. 

"  Genevieve,"  said  my  uncle  seriously,  "the 
time  has  come  for  you  to  make  a  decisive  choice  as 
to  your  future  conduct.  We  are  obliged  to  return 
to  France  immediately.  Will  you  return  with  us, 
embrace  the  true  Catholic  faith,  and  be  to  us  as  a 
daughter,  or  will  you  remain  in  this  land  of  here- 
tics, and  return  to  my  Lord  Stantoun,  or  to  his 
daughter  who  has  invited  you  ?" 

"  Nay,  my  friend,  state  the  case  fairly — that 
jnight  not  be  the  alternative,"  said  madame. 
"  Yevette  might  undoubtedly  be  married  before  we 
leave  England,  since  Mr.  Cunningham  has  made 
application  for  her  hand  already.  Besides,  her 
cousin,  Mr.  Corbet,  is  as  we  hear  just  about  to  re 


386  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

turn  with  his  bride,  and  I  dare  say  they  would  not 
be  sorry  to  give  Vevette  a  home." 

This  last  news — I  hope  I  do  my  aunt  no  injustice 
when  I  say  I  believe  she  made  it  up  for  the  occa- 
sion— decided  me.  I  was  not  a  moment  in  saying 
that  if  monsieur  pleased  I  would  return  to  France 
with  him. 

"  But  if  you  return  with  us  it  must  be  as  a 
Catholic,"  said  my  uncle.  "  I  do  not  profess  to  be 
bigoted,  but  I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  take  an  open 
heretic  to  the  court  of  the  most  Christian  king." 

"  Mademoiselle  has  already  confessed  to  me  her 
desire  of  being  admitted  into  the  bosom  of  our  holy 
mother  church,"  said  Father  Martien.  "Is  it  not 
so,  my  daughter  ?" 

"  It  is  so,"  I  answered  quite  calmly  and  re- 
solvedly. "  I  am  ready  to  make  a  profession  at  any 
time." 

The  priest  and  my  aunt  were  loud  in  their  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude  to  all  the  saints.  My  uncle 
merely  said  : 

"  That  settles  the  matter  then.  "We  shall  go  to 
London  to-morrow  and  from  thence  set  out  at  once 
for  Paris.  There  is  no  time  to  consult  my  Lord 
Stantoun,  nor  is  there  any  need  of  doing  so  since 
he  has  given  his  consent  to  your  residing  with  us." 
The  next  day  we  went  to  London,  where  we  re- 
mained less  than  a  week,  settling  up  affairs,  paying 
off  servants  and  tradespeople,  and  taking  leave  of 
our  friends.  I  was  in  a  high  state  of  excitement, 
and  it  did  not  strike  me  at  the  time,  but  I  well  re- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          387 

member  now  that  I  was  hardly  left  to  myself  a  mo- 
ment, and  that  care  was  taken  that  I  should  never 
have  the  opportunity  of  speaking  alone  with  any  of 
my  Protestant  friends.  My  good  Mercer  came  to 
see  me,  but  she  was  not  admitted,  nor  did  I  know 
of  her  visit  till  long  afterward.  There  was  no 
need,  however,  of  all  these  precautions.  I  was 
possessed  of  only  one  idea — to  separate  myself  as 
far  as  possible  from  Andrew,  and  to  get  out  of  the 
country  before  he  came  into  it.  I  felt  as  if  I  could 
have  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  avoid  him. 
Besides  I  was  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  seeing 
Paris  and  Versailles,  and  that  court  my  aunt  de- 
scribed to  me  in  such  glowing  colors.  I  conceived 
that  I  should  be  a  person  of  a  good  deal  of  impor- 
tance, and  even  began  to  have  dreams  of  a  grand 
alliance.  As  to  love,  I  said  to  myself  it  was  all  sen- 
timental nonsense,  just  fit  for  boys  and  girls.  I 
had  got  over  all  that.  In  short,  my  heart  was  given 
to  the  world.  That  was  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
and  it  paid  me  the  wages  it  usually  bestows  upon  its 
votaries. 

We  were  favored  with  a  passage  in  a  king's  ship, 
and  therefore  fared  better  than  most  people  do  in 
crossing  the  channel,  but  we  had  a  rough  time. 
Every  member  of  oar  party  was  sick  but  myself, 
and  I  had  my  hands  full  with  waiting  upon  my 
aunt,  who  fell  into  all  sorts  of  terrors  and  fits  of  the 
nerves,  and  was  sure  we  were  going  to  be  drowned. 
However,  we  reached  Calais  in  safety,  and  after 


388  The   Chevalier  Daughter's. 

waiting  a  day  or  two  to  refresh  ourselves  we  took 
the  way  to  Paris. 

Whether  it  was  that  I  had  been  so  long  away 
from  France  that  I  had  forgotten  how  it  looked,  or 
that  Normandy  had  been  in  a  more  flourishing  con- 
dition than  the  other  provinces,  or  finally,  that  I 
contrasted  what  I  now  saw  with  what  I  had  seen  in 
England,  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  certainly  the  country 
looked  terribly  forlorn  to  me.  There  was  little 
tillage,  and  what  there  was  seemed  by  no  means 
flourishing  ;  the  people  had  a  crushed,  oppressed, 
half -fed  look  which  was  very  sad  to  see.  Even 
when  the  vintage  was  going  on  there  seemed  very 
little  rejoicing.  Once,  taking  a  by-road  to  avoid  a 
hill,  we  came  upon  what  must  have  been  a  flourish- 
ing vineyard  a  day  or  two  before,  but  the  vines 
were  crushed  and  torn  from  their  supports,  and  lay 
withering  upon  the  ground,  the  beautiful  grapes 
were  scattered  and  spoiled,  while  two  or  three 
women  with  faces  of  blank  despair  were  trying  to 
rescue  some  of  the  fruit  from  the  general  destruc- 
tion. 

11  Oh,  the  poor  people  !"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  what 
has  happened  to  them  ?" 

"  A  boar  hunt  probably,"  said  my  uncle  in- 
differently. 

"  But  why  should  that  have  wrought  such  ruin  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  Because,  little  simpleton,  the  boar  would  as 
soon  go  through  a  vineyard  as  anywhere  else,  and 
when  he  does  it  is  needful  that  the  hunt  should  fol- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          389 

low   him,  which   is   not   very   good   for  the  vine- 
yards." 

"  And  so  for  the  sake  of  some  great  man's  pleas- 
ure of  an  hour  or  two  the  poor  man's  heritage  is 
destroyed,"  said  I  indignantly.  "  What  a  shame  ! 
What  wickedness  !" 

"  Tut,  tut  !  petite  !  Remember  that  we  are  not 
now  in  England  where  every  clown  can  bring  his 
lord  to  justice,  but  in  France  where  nobles  have 
privileges.  But  I  wonder  where  the  owner  is. 
Where  is  your  husband,  my  good  woman?"  he 
called  out,  as  we  came  opposite  the  workers. 

"  Alas,  monsieur,  I  do  not  know,"  answered  the 
poor  woman,  with  streaming  eyes.  ' '  Monsieur  the 
marquis  was  hunting  yesterday  and  took  a  short 
cut  through  our  vineyard  to  arrive  the  sooner,  and 
my  husband  was  so  ill-advised  as  to  utter  some  harsh 
words  and  maledictions  which  the  marquis  over- 
heard ;  so  he  bade  the  huntsmen  take  him  away  and 
teach  him  better  manners.  Since  then  I  have  not 
seen  him,  and  Heaven  knows  what  has  become  of 
him.  Oh,  monsieur,  if  you  would  but  intercede 
for  us  ;  I  am  sure  my  husband  meant  no  harm." 

"  He  should  be  more  careful  with  his  words," 
returned  my  uncle.  "  My  good  woman,  I  am  not 
acquainted  with  your  marquis,  and  cannot  therefore 
take  the  liberty  of  speaking  for  your  husband  ;  but 
there  is  some  money  for  you.  Drive  on,  postil- 
ion." 

My  heart  was  sick  with  the  injustice  and  tyranny, 
the  effects  of  which  I  had  just  seen,  but  my  aunt 


390  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

ainl  uncle  seemed  to  think  little  of  it,  and  indeed  1 
saw  enough  more  sights  of  the  same  kind  before  we 
reached  Paris.  The  simple  truth  was  and  is  that  in 
France  the  common  people  have  no  rights  whatever, 
but  are  absolutely  at  the  mercy  of  their  lord. 
Their  crops,  the  honor  of  their  families,  their  very 
lives,  depend  upon  his  humor,  and  how  great  so- 
ever may  be  the  wrong,  there  is  no  redress.  I  had 
seen  little  of  this  sort  of  thing  in  Normandy.  The 
only  great  proprietor  near  the  tour,  besides  my 
father  and  Monsieur  Le  Roy,  who  were  both  Hu- 
guenots, was  a  gentleman  of  great  kindness,  and  one 
who  made  a  conscience  of  dealing  justly  with  his 
people.  I  was  heart-sick  before  we  reached  our 
destination,  and  wished  twenty  times  J.  were  back 
in  England. 

We  arrived  in  Paris  at  last,  and  I  found  myself 
dazzled  by  the  splendid  buildings  and  the  grand 
equipages  which  met  my  eyes  on  every  hand.  The 
streets,  it  was  true,  were  quite  as  dirty  as  London, 
but  there  was  no  fog  or  coal  smoke  to  obscure  the 
air  or  blacken  the  house  fronts.  My  aunt  was  in 
the  best  of  spirits  at  being  once  more  in  her  dear 
native  city,  but  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  uncle 
rather  grave  and  preoccupied.  As  to  Father  Mar- 
tien  he  was  always  the  same  under  every  circum- 
stance, and  I  have  no  doubt  would  have  preserved 
the  same  calm  countenance  whether  he  were  watch- 
ing the  agonies  of  a  heretic  on  the  wheel,  or  being 
himself  served  with  the  same  sauce  by  the  Iroquois. 

My  uncle  had  a  fine  hotel  in  a  fashionable  situa- 


Tke  Ckevaliers  Daughter.          391 

tion,  and  as  a  courier  had  been  sent  before  us  we 
found  everything  ready  for  our  reception.  I  was 
assigned  a  small  room  which  looked  into  a  court, 
and  had  no  exit  but  through  my  aunt's  reception- 
room.  It  was  prettily  furnished  enough,  but  I  took 
a  dislike  to  it  from  the  first,  because  it  reminded 
me  of  my  little  turret-room  at  the  Tour  d'Antin, 
which  I  would  have  preferred  of  all  things  to  for- 
get. 

I  had  looked  forward  to  Paris  as  a  scene  of  gayety 
and  splendor  far  beyond  anything  I  had  ever  seen,  and 
so  it  was,  but  I  very  soon  found  that  the  gayety  and 
splendor  were  not  for  me.  It  was  not  that  my  aunt 
meant  to  be  unkind  ;  on  the  contrary,  at  that  time 
she  was  amiability  itself ,  but  in  France  a  young  lady 
of  good  family  lives  before  her  marriage  in  a  state 
of  as  much  seclusion  as  if  she  were  in  a  convent. 
In  fact  almost  every  French  young  lady  is  placed 
in  a  convent  at  a  very  early  age,  from  which  she 
only  emerges  to  be  married  to  the  man  not  of  her 
own,  but  of  her  parents'  choice,  whom  she  perhaps 
never  saw  more  than  twice  and  never  a  moment 
alone,  till  she  was  married  to  him. 

I  could  not  complain  of  being  treated  as  other 
girls  were,  but  I  must  confess  I  found  the  life  a 
very  dull  one.  My  aunt  lost  no  time  in  securing 
for  me  the  services  of  a  music  and  a  dancing  mas- 
ter, and  she  often  took  me  out  with  her  in  the 
coach,  but  I  had  no  companions  of  my  own  age.  I 
was  not  at  all  well.  I  had  been  accustomed  to  a  great 
deal  of  exercise  all  my  life,  and  that  in  the  fresh  air, 


39 2  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

and  the  state  of  excitement  in  which  I  had  been 
kept  for  such  a  length  of  time  began  to  tell  on  me. 
I  slept  very  little  and  was  troubled  by  frightful 
dreams,  which  almost  always  took  me  back  to  the 
Tour  d'Antin,  and  the  dangers  I  had  undergone 
there,  or,  what  was  still  worse,  I  read  and  worked 
and  prayed  with  my  mother,  and  then  waked  to  an 
intolerable  sense  of  want  and  desolation.  I  told 
Father  Martien  of  these  dreams.  He  looked  grave, 
pronounced  them  direct  temptations  of  the  devil, 
and  said  he  feared  I  had  some  sin  or  some  conceal- 
ment yet  upon  my  conscience  which  gave  the  evil 
spirit  power  over  me.  I  assured  him  that  such  was 
not  the  case  ;  but  he  still  looked  grave,  bade  me 
search  my  conscience  anew,  advised  a  retreat,  and 
gave  me  to  read  the  "  Four  Weeks'  Meditations  of 
Saint  Ignatius."  This  retreat  and  course  of  study 
were  to  be  my  final  preparation  for  the  public  pro- 
fession which  I  was  to  make.  In  the  course  of  it  I 
secluded  myself  entirely  in  my  room,  which  was  so 
far  darkened  that  I  had  only  light  enough  to  read. 
I  fasted  rigorously,  saw  no  company,  was  allowed 
no  recreation,  and  no  employment  save  my  rosary 
and  my  book  of  meditations.  And  such  medita- 
tions—full of  the  grossest  and  most  material  images 
of  death  and  its  consequences — the  decay  of  the 
senses,  the  desolation  of  the  sick-room  and  the 
dying-bed,  the  corruption  of  the  body,  the  flames 
and  brimstone,  the  wheels  and  spits  of  purgatory 
and  hell  !  In  the  midst  of  all  this  the  penitent  is 
invited  to  pause  and  resolve  seriously  upon  his  or 


The  Chevalier's  Daiig  liter.          393 

her  vocation,  just  at  the  time  and  in  the  state  when 
she  is  most  incapable  of  judging  reasonably  of  any- 
thing. No  wonder  the  book  has  been  instrumental 
in  leading  so  many  into  the  cloister. 

I  finished  my  month's  retreat  and  was  admitted 
into  the  fold  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church,  as  she 
dares  to  call  herself,  in  the  chapel  of  the  king  him- 
self, who  had  taken  a  great  interest  in  my  story.  I 
should  like  to  give  my  reader  an  account  of  this  im- 
portant passage  of  my  life,  but  in  truth  I  remember 
very  little  about  it.  I  have  an  indistinct  recol- 
lection of  knocking  at  a  closed  door  and  requesting 
admission  to  the  church,  of  various  chants  and 
prayers,  of  censers  and  waxen  tapers,  but  it  is  all 
like  a  confused  dream.  In  fact,  I  was  already  very 
ill,  though  nobody  suspected  it.  I  recollect  receiv- 
ing a  great  many  congratulations,  and  being  saluted 
by  the  king  himself,  who,  having  been  converted 
himself  (save  the  mark),  took  a  great  interest  in  all 
converts.  The  next  morning  found  me  in  the 
stupor  of  such  a  fever  as  I  had  suffered  in  Jersey, 
and  for  two  or  three  weeks  I  lay  between  life  and 
death,  unconscious  of  everything.  At  last,  how- 
ever, the  disease  took  a  turn,  and  I  was  pronounced 
out  of  danger.  For  some  time  longer  I  lay  quietly 
in  my  bed,  slowly  gaining  strength  and  the  ability 
to  think  connectedly.  I  was  indeed  like  one  waking 
from  a  long  dream,  and  I  began  to  realize  what  I 
had  done.  All  the  instructions  I  had  received  in 
my  youth — the  very  psalms  I  had  learned  from  my 
foster-mother — returned  upon  me,  and  would  not 


394  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

be  put  aside.  My  eyes  were  opened,  and  I  was 
compelled  to  see  and  to  own  that  I  had  deliberately 
sold  myself  to  the  world,  and  that  unless  I  could 
find  a  place  of  repentance — which  did  not  yet  ap. 
pear  to  me — I  must  reckon  upon  paying  the  price 
of  the  bargain,  namely,  my  immortal  soul.  Little 
did  my  aunt  and  my  nurse  guess,  while  I  lay  so 
quietly  with  closed  eyes,  what  was  going  on  within. 
I  would  have  given  worlds  to  weep,  but  I  had  no 
tears.  Neither  could  I  pray.  My  heart  was  dry  as 
dust,  and  the  unmeaning  repetitions  which  had 
served  me  instead  of  prayers  now  inspired  me  with 
nothing  but  weariness  and  disgust.  Oh,  how  I 
hated  that  image  of  the  Virgin  which  stood  opposite 
my  bed,  dressed  in  laces  and  satin,  and  wearing  my 
own  mother's  pearl  clasp  !  I  had  myself  given  it 
away  for  this  purpose  in  one  of  my  fits  of  devotion. 
If  I  had  dared  I  would  have  crushed  the  simper- 
ing waxen  baby  under  my  feet.  The  stronger  I 
grew,  the  more  wretched  I  found  myself.  1  was 
obliged  to  go  to  confession,  but  Father  Martien's 
threats  and  cajoleries  had  no  more  effect  upon  me 
tli an  to  make  me  hate  him,  as  the  one  who  had  led 
me  into  the  snare  from  which  I  could  see  no  escape, 
unless  it  were  such  a  martyrdom  as  my  father's,  or 
the  slower  hidden  agonies  of  a  convent  prison.  For 
these  I  was  by  no  means  prepared,  and  I  well  knew 
they  were  what  awaited  me  if  I  allowed  my  change 
of  feeling  to  become  known.  The  king,  as  I  have 
hinted,  had  been  converted  by  the  jubilee  which 
had  taken  place  some  years  before.  He  was  still  in 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          395 

the  fervor  of  his  first  love,  and  as  his  spiritual 
guides  could  not  succeed  in  making  him  give  up 
Madame  de  Montespan  and  company,  they  com- 
promised by  urging  him  on  to  more  and  greater  acts 
of  severity  against  the  so-called  heretics.  One 
might  be  an  unbeliever  even  to  denying  the  exist- 
ence of  a  God  at  all,  but  to  be  a  Huguenot,  or  even  a 
Jansenist,  was  an  unpardonable  sin.  Two  or  three 
great  men,  indeed,  who  were  necessary  to  him  by 
their  talents  as  soldiers  or  statesmen,  were  allotted  a 
sort  of  protection,  but  even  these  soon  found  their 
lives  unbearable,  and  either  conformed  like  Turenne 
afterward,  or  fled  from  the  kingdom.  For  a  young 
girl  like  myself,  away  from  all  near  friends,  and, 
above  all,  one  who  had  only  lately  conformed,  there 
would  be  no  hope.  Even  a  suspicion  of  relapse 
would  lead  at  once  to  a  convent  with  all  its  possible 
horrors.  No,  there  was  no  escape.  I  had  left  my 
Lord,  and  he  had  left  me.  I  had  denied  him,  and 
he  would  deny  me.  I  must  go  on  as  I  had  begun, 
and  that  to  the  bitter  end. 

It  was  not  one  of  the  least  of  my  troubles  that  I 
felt  all  my  love  for  Andrew  revive  again.  I  began 
to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  stories  I  had  heard,  and 
to  wonder  whether  they  had  not  been  invented  for 
the  very  sake  of  entrapping  me.  Doubt  soon  grew 
into  conviction,  and,  reasonably  or  unreasonably,  I 
no  more  believed  that  Andrew  was  married  than 
that  I  was.  No,  he  would  return  in  a  year — return 
to  claim  me  and  to  find  that  I  was  lost  to  him,  to 
truth,  and  heaven  forever.  It  was  in  the  church 


396  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

where  1  was  kneeling  for  the  first  time  since  my  ill- 
ness that  this  thought  came  to  me,  and  I  cast  myself 
on  the  ground  and  groaned  almost  aloud.  My  aunt 
observed  the  movement,  as  indeed  nothing  escaped 
her  eyes,  and  when  she  returned  she  remarked  upon 
it,  saying  that  such  a  display  of  devotion,  however 
commendable  in  private,  was  not  in  good  taste  in 
such  a  public  place,  and  that  I  would  do  well  to 
restrain  myself.  About  this  time  Father  Martien 
was  called  away,  and  I  made  my  confessions  to  a  fat 
old  priest  at  our  parish  church,  who,  I  am  per- 
suaded, used  to  doze  through  half  the  time  of  con- 
fession and  take  snuff  the  other  half.  He  was  very 
kind,  however,  and  gave  me  easy  penances  and 
plentiful  absolutions.  My  religion  had  by  this  time 
become  the  merest  form,  kept  up  to  save  appear- 
ances, but  now  and  then  would  recur  the  thought 
that  perhaps  Father  Martien  was  right  after  all,  and 
if  so  why  I  was  living  in  mortal  sin,  a  sacrilegious 
person  for  whom  millions  of  ages  in  purgatory 
would  be  of  no  avail.  Thus  I  was  tossed  from  one 
doubt  to  another,  and  found  comfort  nowhere. 

The  discomfort  of  my  mind  could  not  but  react 
upon  my  body.  I  grew  pale,  sallow,  and  was  miser- 
ably unwell.  My  aunt  lamented  the  loss  of  my 
beauty,  and  predicted  that  I  should  never  find  a 
husband.  A  husband  indeed  was  what  I  now  feared 
most  of  all.  I  determined  tli;it  I  would  die  before  I 
would  accept  one,  and  then  came  the  thought  thai, 
not  death  would  be  the  alternative  but  a  convent. 
No,  there  was  no  hope  anywhere. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


ANOTHER   CHANGE. 

E  remained  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris 
all  that  winter,  sometimes  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  sometimes  in  the  city  itself,  for,  as 
I  have  said,  my  uncle  had  some  office  or 
command  which  kept  him  about  the  court.  My 
aunt  had  her  balls  and  assemblies,  her  grand  banquets 
and  little  suppers,  and  must  have  spent  a  great  deal 
of  money.  I  rarely  saw  anything  of  this  gayety, 
though  I  went  out  with  my  aunt  in  the  carriage,  and 
now  and  then,  when  she  had  a  small  assembly,  I  was 
allowed  to  sit  at  her  elbow  and  look  on,  though  I  was 
not  expected  to  speak  unless  spoken  to,  and  then  only 
in  the  shortest,  most  restrained  manner.  Of  the 
court  I  saw  nothing.  My  aunt  had  hoped,  I  be- 
lieve, to  procure  some  place  for  herself,  but  in  that 
she  did  not  succeed.  Still  she  was  often  at  the 
court,  and  was  liked  by  the  king  for  her  wit  and 
sprightliness.  When  she  was  away  my  only  society 
was  my  maid  Zelie,  whom  I  had  never  liked,  and 
now  thoroughly  distrusted,  believing  her  to  be  a 
spy  upon  me,  my  aunt's  lapdog  and  her  parrot. 


398  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

My  only  recreation  was  in  reading  the  very  few 
books  which  were  thought  proper  for  a  young  lady, 
my  music,  and  my  embroidery,  and  I  only  went  out 
to  go  to  church,  whither  I  was  attended  by  Zelie  or 
an  older  woman  who  had  been  my  aunt's  nurse, 
and  who,  having  been  a  Huguenot' in  her  youth  and 
then  converted,  was  of  course  doubly  zealous  and 
devoted.  Oh,  to  what  a  slavery  had  I  brought  my- 
self !  With  what  impassioned  longing  I  looked 
back  to  the  days  when  I  used  to  climb  the  hill  at 
Tre  Madoc  to  attend  to  my  little  school  or  run 
down  to  the  beach  to  watch  the  pilchard-fishing, 
and  of  those  earlier  times  in  Normandy  when  I 
played  with  Lucille  and  David  in  the  orchards,  or 
helped  to  pile  up  the  golden  and  rosy  apples  for  the 
cider-mill !  I  would  gladly  have  changed  places 
with  the  poorest  old  woman  in  Cornwall  for  the 
privilege  of  walking  abroad  unfettered,  and  weep- 
ing my  fill  unwatched.  I  would  have  given  all  the 
costly  furniture  of  our  hotel,  had  it  been  mine,  for 
half  a  dozen  loose  leaves  of  my  mother's  old  prayer- 
book,  for  it  was  one  of  my  great  troubles  that  I 
could  not  remember  the  words  of  Scripture.  I  sup- 
pose it  might  have  been  some  odd  effect  of  my  ill- 
ness, but  while  my  memory  had  become  clear  as 
to  other  things,  it  was  in  that  respect  almost  a 
blank.  In  the  state  of  mind  I  then  was,  I  regard- 
ed this  forgetfulness  as  a  direct  judgment  from 
Heaven,  and  an  express  proof  and  mark  of  my  rep- 
robation. I  thirsted  for  the  water  of  life.  I  read 
again  and  again  the  few  psalms  and  meagre  bits  of 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter,          399 

scripture  contained  in  my  books  of  devotion.  That 
fountain  was  to  be  once  more  unsealed  for  me,  but 
not  till  I  had  drank  my  fill  of  the  bitter  waters  and 
broken  cisterns  for  which  I  had  forsaken  it. 

Meantime  affairs  were  not  going  well  with  my 
uncle.  I  was  told  nothing,  but  I  gathered  from 
things  that  I  overheard  and  from  hints  dropped  in 
my  presence  that  he  had  lost  the  favor  of  his  royal 
master  in  the  first  place  by  outstaying  his  leave  in 
England,  and  though  he  had  hoped  to  make  his  peace 
by  the  presentation  of  a  new  convert  to  the  Catho- 
lic faith,  the  offering  had  not  been  altogether  suffi- 
cient. Court  favor  is  of  all  earthly  things  one  of 
the  most  uncertain.  My  uncle  had  been  a  friend  of 
the  unhappy  Madame  de  Yalliere,  who,  at  this  time 
under  the  name  of  Sister  Louise  de  la  Misericorde, 
was  striving  to  expiate  her  errors  by  a  life  of  more 
than  ordinary  austerity  among  the  Carmelite  nuns 
of  Paris.  He  had  had  the  imprudence  to  speak 
contemptuously  of  Madame  de  Montespan,  and  his 
remarks  had  been  carried  to  the  lady's  ears  by  one 
of  those  tale-bearers  who  flourish  at  court.  Of 
course  madame  became  his  enemy.  She  had  great 
influence  with  the  king,  though  not  so  much  as 
Madame  de  Maintenon  came  to  have  afterward. 
My  uncle's  disgrace  grew  more  and  more  apparent 
every  day,  and  at  last  he  received  peremptory  orders 
to  retire  to  his  chateau  in  Provence,  where  he  held 
some  sort  of  office  under  government.  He  was 
allowed,  however,  to  remain  in  Paris  for  two  or 


400  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

three   weeks,  to  settle   up   his  affairs  there,  which 
were,  I  imagine,  in  no  little  confusion. 

MY  aunt  was  in  despair.  To  be  banished  from 
court  was  to  be  cast  out  of  heaven  in  her  estima- 
tion. She  hated  the  country,  and  went  thither  even 
for  a  few  weeks  with  unwillingness.  She  wept  and 
went  into  fits  of  the  nerves,  as  she  usually  did  under 
any  disturbance  of  mind  or  body.  The  poor  lady 
was  really  very  ill  for  a  few  days,  and  as  I  was  the 
only  person  who  had  the  least  control  over  her  in 
her  paroxysms  I  had  my  hands  full.  However,  she 
had  an  elastic  constitution  of  mind  and  body,  and 
she  soon  recovered,  and  began  planning  all  sorts  of 
amusements,  one  of  which,  I  remember,  was  to  be 
the  refurnishing  of  the  Chateau  de  Fayrolles  from 
top  to  bottom.  I  was  glad  to  see  her  diverted  by 
anything,  and  I  listened  to  all  her  schemes,  and 
being  ready  with  my  pencil  was  able  to  afford  her 
pleasure  by  sketching  designs  for  furniture,  hang- 
ings, and  the  like,  which  even  my  uncle  declared  to 
be  very  clever. 

One  day,  being  left  to  myself  while  my  aunt  en- 
tertained a  visitor,  I  began  drawing  from  memory  a 
sketch  of  my  old  home,  the  Tour  d'Antin.  I  be- 
came so  interested  in  my  work  as  to  take  no  note 
of  the  time,  till  I  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  of 
my  uncle  and  Father  Martien.  I  had  not  seen  the 
latter  gentleman  for  some  weeks,  nor  was  I  at  all 
glad  to  behold  him  now.  My  religion  had  become 
to  me  more  and  more  an  empty  profession,  and 
though  I  still  went  regularly  to  mass  and  confes- 


T/ie  Chevaliers  Daughter.          401 

sion,  my  attendance  was  the  merest  form.  At  mass 
and  vespers,  though  I  kept  my  book  open,  I 
thought  of  anything  rather  than  the  services,  and 
as  to  my  confessions,  if  1  had  repeated  the  Confiteor 
correctly,  and  then  gone  on  in  the  orthodox  devout 
whisper  to  say  that  I  had  become  a  Moslem  and  the 
fifteenth  wife  of  the  Grand  Bashaw,  good  old  Father 
Le  Moyiie  would  have  been  none  the  wiser,  but 
would  have  given  me  absolution  in  his  usual  gentle, 
nasal  sing-song.  I  had  learned  to  love  and  respect 
the  old  man,  for  though  indolent  to  a  degree,  he 
was  kind  and  fatherly,  and  did  not  disgrace  himself 
with  wine  or  worse  things,  and  it  was  with  real  dis- 
may that  I  contemplated  exchanging  him  for  the 
sharp-sighted,  cold  Father  Martieu. 

My  uncle  looked  at  the  sketch  and  commended  it, 
saying  that  it  showed  real  talent.  He  then  began 
asking  me  questions  about  it,  sitting  down  with  the 
drawing  in  his  hand.  At  last, 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Vevette,  which  I  have  hes- 
itated to  ask  you  about,  not  wishing  to  revive  pain- 
ful memories  ;  but  the  time  has  arrived  when  such 
an  inquiry  becomes  necessary.  Where  did  your 
father  conceal  his  treasure  ?" 

"  His  treasure  !"  I  repeated  ;  "  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

My  uncle  contracted  his  brows. 

"  Do  not  trifle  with  me,"  said  he  sternly.  "  I 
am  well  informed  that  my  unhappy  brother  invested 
a  great  deal  of  the  money  which  he  acquired  in  one 
way  and  another  in  plate  and  jewels.  "What  did  he 


402  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

do  with  them  ?  1  know  that  he  left  them  concealed 
somewhere  about  the  estate  ;  but  where  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  answered,  with  perfect 
truth  ;  "I  know  that  he  and  my  cousin" — I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  say  Andrew — "  hid  away  a  part 
of  what  silver  there  was,  but  I  never  heard  what 
they  did  with  it.  lie  sold  a  good  deal,  I  know." 

"  And  what  disposition  did  he  make  of  the 
money  ?" 

"  He  turned  a  large  part  of  it  into  diamonds. 
The  rest  he  left  with  my  foster-father,  Simon  Sablot, 
who  afterward  brought  it  to  my  mother  in  Eng- 
land." 

"  And  the  jewels,  my  daughter,  what  of  them  ?" 
asked  Father  Martien. 

"  Oh,  we  carried  them  to  England  with  us,"  I 
answered,  inwardly  rejoicing  to  give  an  answer  so 
little  satisfactory.  ' '  My  mother  sold  them  in  Lon- 
don, and  invested  a  part  of  the  money  in  a  little  es- 
tate at  Tre  Madoc — the  Welles  House.  The  rest  is 
in  the  hands  of  my  lord,  unless  he  has  put  it  into 
land." 

My  uncle  stamped  his  foot  and  bit  his  lip  with 
vexation.  It  seems  he  thought  his  brother  had  left 
bis  treasures  concealed,  and  hoped  by  my  means  to 
lay  hands  upon  them.  No  doubt  they  would  have 
made  a  very  welcome  supply  at  that  tune. 

"Are  you  telling  the  exact  truth,  daughter?" 
asked  Father  Martien  sternly. 

"  I  am  telling  the  exact  truth,  so  far  as  I  know 
it,"  I  answered,  with  some  spirit.  "  There  may 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  403 

be  some  of  the  silver  still  concealed  at  the  Tour 
d'Antin,  but  if  so  I  do  not  know  where  it  is." 

"  Where  should  you  think  it  would  be  most 
likely  to  be  hidden  ?' '  was  the  next  question. 

"  That  I  cannot  tell  either,"  I  answered  ;  "  but 
I  suppose  the  vault  under  the  tower  would  be  as 
probable  a  place  as  any." 

"  Is  there  not  a  vault  under  the  old  chapel  ?" 
asked  Father  Martien. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  ;  "  a  burial  vault." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  once  ;  at  the  burial  of  one  of  our  ser- 
vants," I  replied,  availing  myself  of  the  orthodox 
Jesuit  doctrine  of  mental  reservation. 

"  Do  you  think  your  father  would  be  likely  to 
place  the  treasure  in  that  vault  ?"  was  the  next 
question. 

'*'  I  do  not  know  as  to  that,"  I  answered.  "  I 
suppose  he  might.  But  I  rather  imagine  that  what 
silver  there  was  was  buried  somewhere  about  the 
orchard." 

My  uncle  continued  questioning  me  for  some 
time,  but  as  I  could  not  tell  him  what  I  did  not 
know,  he  was  not  much  the  wiser  for  my  replies. 
He  did  not  half  believe  that  we  had  carried  off  the 
jewels,  and  declared  that  he  meant  to  write  to  Lord 
Stantoun  on  the  subject  of  "  my  property,"  as  I 
called  it. 

"It  is  mine,"  I  replied  indignantly;  "my 
mother  left  it  to  me." 

My  uncle  laughed  contemptuously. 


404  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  Your  mother  had  no  more  right  to  it  than  you 
have,"  said  he.  "  Being  married  to  your  father, 
as  they  presume  to  say,  by  a  Protestant  minister, 
the  marriage  is  no  marriage  by  law.  It  was  not 
worth  a  pin.  You  are  an  illegitimate  child,  and  as 
such  have  no  rights  whatever.  My  brother's  suc- 
cession belongs  to  me,  and  I  intend  to  have  it." 

"It  is  the  truth,  my  daughter,"  said  Father 
Martien,  as  I  looked  at  him.  "  The  blasphemous 
parody  of  the  holy  sacrament  of  marriage  with 
which  your  wretched  and  guilty  parents  were 
united  was  not  only  invalid  but  was  of  itself  a 
grievous  crime  in  the  eye  of  the  law  as  well  as  of 
the  Church." 

If  I  had  had  the  power  of  life  and  death  in  my 
hands  I  should  at  that  moment  have  laid  both  of 
these  men  dead  at  my  feet.  In  my  rage  I  actually 
looked  around  for  a  weapon,  and  it  was  well  for  ail 
parties  that  there  was  none  at  hand.  Then,  as  the 
conviction  of  my  utter  helplessness  and  desolation 
came  over  me,  I  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"  Hush,  my  daughter  !"  said  the  priest.  "  These 
tears  do  not  become  you.  Let  your  natural  affec- 
tion for  your  parents  be  laid  upon  the  altar  of  that 
church  which  they  spurned,  and  it  may  become  a 
merit.  Indulged,  it  is  in  your  case  a  sin  against 
God  and  our  holy  religion." 

My  uncle,  devout  Catholic  as  he  was,  had  not 
lost  all  feeling,  nor  was  he  a  man  to  be  put  down  in 
his  own  house  even  by  a  priest.  He  silenced  the 
Father  by  a  look,  and  then  set  himself  to  soothe  me, 


The  Chevalier  s  Daiightcr.          405 

saying  that  though  he  had  thought  it  needful  to  tell 
me  the  truth,  he  should  not  visit  upon  me  the  mis- 
fortune of  my  birth,  but  should  continue  to  regard 
me  as  a  daughter  so  long  as  I  showed  myself  dutiful 
to  him  and  to  my  aunt.  He  bade  me  retire  to  my 
room  and  compose  myself,  saying  that  he  would 
make  my  excuses. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  country  for  a  few  days," 
said  he.  "  When  I  return  I  shall  hope  to  find  that 
you  have  recovered  your  spirits  and  are  prepared 
to  submit  to  any  arrangement  your  friends  may 
think  it  best  to  make  for  your  welfare." 

My  uncle  gave  me  his  hand  as  far  as  the  door  of 
my  apartment,  and  parted  from  me  with  a  fatherly 
salute,  recommending  me  to  He  down  and  rest 
awhile.  He  was  very  kind  to  me  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  seemed  by  his  manner  to  wish  to  make  me 
forget  the  harshness  he  had  used  toward  me. 

The  next  morning  he  called  me  into  his  own 
room  and  put  into  my  hands  a  letter  he  had  written 
to  my  Lord  Stantoun.  It  was  to  the  effect  that, 
having  embraced  the  Catholic  faith,  and  being  re- 
solved in  future  to  make  my  home  with  my  father's 
brother,  I  desired  to  have  all  my  property  put  into 
the  hands  of  Monsieur  de  Fayrolles,  my  natural 
guardian. 

"You  will  copy  this  letter,"  said  my  uncle, 
"  and  I  will  inclose  it  in  one  of  my  own  to  my 
Lord  Staunton.  If  he  is  an  honest  man  he  will  see 
the  justice  and  wisdom  of  such  an  arrangement. 
If  lie  is  not,  I  must  take  other  measures,  for  I  am 


406  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter, 

resolved  not  to  be  cheated  of  my  right.  Sit  down 
here  and  copy  the  letter." 

I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey,  my  uncle  all  the 
time  standing  by  and  observing  me.  When  the 
copy  was  finished  he  inclosed  both  letters  in  an  en  - 
velope,  and  was  just  about  sealing  them  when  my 
aunt  called  upon  him.  With  an  expression  of  im- 
patience he  laid  down  the  unsealed  letter  and  went 
into  the  next  room.  In  a  moment  I  had  turned 
down  the  corner  of  the  sheet  and  written  in  small 
characters,  "  Don't,  for  Heaven's  sake." 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  when  my 
uncle  returned  he  found  me  reading  a  book  I  had 
taken  from  the  table.  He  reproved  me  for  opening 
a  book  without  leave,  but  seeing  that  it  was  only  a 
play  of  Monsieur  Racine's  I  had  taken  up,  told  me 
to  keep  it  if  I  liked.  He  sealed  the  letter  without 
looking  at  it  again,  told  me  he  was  pleased  with  my 
compliance,  and  gave  me  a  gold  piece  to  buy  rib- 
bons with,  as  he  said.  I  was  not  sorry  to  receive 
it,  for  I  was  already  turning  over  in  my  head  plans 
of  escape,  and  I  knew  that  any  plan  I  could  form 
•.v'ould  need  money  to  carry  it  out. 

My  uncle  was  absent  several  days,  and  came  back- 
in  anything  but  a  good  humor.  He  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  the  treasure,  if  there  was  any  to 
find,  neither  had  he  succeeded  in  letting  the  land. 
The  house,  having  been  reduced  by  the  fire  to  a  mere 
empty  shell,  had  partly  fallen  in  and  filled  up  the 
cellars,  while  of  the  vault  under  the  chapel  he  said 
the  whole  floor  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  some  abvss. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          407 

"  So  there  really  was  a  cavern  underneath,"  I 
said.  "  There  was  a  tradition  to  that  effect,  and 
my  father  always  believed  that  such  a  cavern  ex- 
isted, and  that  it  had  some  connection  with  the  sea. ' ' 

"  It  might  have  a  connection  with  the  infernal 
regions,  judging  from  the  sounds  which  proceed 
from  it, ' '  said  my  uncle.  ' '  I  was  near  falling  into 
it  headlong.  It  is  the  more  vexatious  because  there 
are  niches  around  the  wall  which  have  evidently 
been  built  up — one  even  quite  lately. " 

"And  they  are  quite  inaccessible?"  said  my 
aunt. 

"Oh,  entirely.  The  whole  building  is  so  ruin- 
ous that  one  enters  it  only  at  the  risk  of  one's  life." 

"  The  niches  are  only  burial-places,"  I  ventured 
to  say,  thinking  at  the  same  time  that  poor  Grace's 
grave  would  now  at  least  be  safe  from  insult. 

"  Yes,  but  they  may  have  been  used  for  deposits 
of  another  sort.  However,  there  is  no  use  in  think- 
ing more  about  the  matter.  You  are  looking  bet- 
ter, Yevette.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  try  to  put  on  a 
more  cheerful  face.  Your  countenance  lately  has 
been  a  perpetual  kill-joy — n't  only  for  a  convent  of 
Carmelites." 

Indeed,  my  health  had  improved.  The  very 
thought  of  escape,  impracticable  as  it  seemed  at 
present,  had  put  new  life  into  me.  I  began  to  take 
a  little  care  of  myself,  and  to  be  anxious  to  acquire 
strength. 

"  I  do  not  think,  my  friend,  that  the  convent  of 
the  Carmelites  will  be  Ye vette's  vocation,"  said  my 


408  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

aunt,  smiling  ;  "  I  have  an  affair  of  great  impor- 
tance to  lay  before  you  when  we  are  at  leisure." 

A  cold  chill  struck  to  my  heart  as  I  heard  these 
words  and  guessed  what  they  might  mean.  The 
event  proved  that  my  forebodings  were  well 
founded.  There  was  a  certain  Monsieur  de  Luynes, 
an  elderly  gentleman  of  good  family,  and  very 
wealthy,  who  often  visited  my  aunt,  being  indeed 
some  sort  of  connection.  This  gentleman  had  lost 
his  wife  many  years  before,  and  having  married  off 
all  his  daughters  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  pro- 
viding a  companion  and  nurse  for  his  declining 
years.  He  was  hideously  ugly — tall,  shambling, 
with  bushy  gray  eyebrowsj  and  a  great  scar  on  his 
cheek  which  had  affected  the  shape  of  one  of  his 
eyes  ;  but  his  manners  were  amiable  and  kind,  and 
he  had  the  reputation  of  leading  a  remarkably  good 
life.  He  had  always  taken  a  good  deal  of  notice  of 
me,  and  had  once  or  twTice  drawn  me  into  conver- 
sation as  I  sat  at  my  aunt's  side,  and  I  had  thought 
him  very  agreeable.  It  was  this  Monsieur  de 
Luynes  who  now  made  a  formal  proposal  for  my 
hand.  I  was  not  at  all  consulted  in  the  matter.  I 
was  simply  called  into  my  aunt's  boudoir,  told  of 
the  proposal  which  had  been  made,  and  ordered  to 
consider  myself  the  future  wife  of  Monsieur  de 
Luynes. 

"  There  is  no  reason  for  any  delay,"  said  my 
aunt.  "  Monsieur,  who  is  himself  very  wealthy, 
does  not  ask  for  any  dot  with  you.  The  trousseau 
can  be  prepared  in  a  few  days,  and  I  will  engage  it 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          409 

shall  be  a  fine  one.     You  will  be  a  happy  woman, 
petite." 

"  Yes  indeed  ;  you  may  consider  yourself  most 
fortunate,"  added  my  uncle.  "  Considering  the 
misfortune  of  your  birth  and  your  state  of  poverty 
and  dependence,  it  is  a  match  far  beyond  anything 
we  have  a  right  to  expect  for  you.  It  .will  give  me 
great  pleasure  to  see  you  established  at  the  head  of 
Monsieur  de  Luynes'  fine  house  before  I  leave 
Paris." 

My  resolution  was  taken  in  a  moment.  If  Mon- 
sieur de  Luynes'  offer  had  come  to  me  at  the  be- 
ginning of  my  residence  in  France  I  should  in- 
stantly have  accepted  it,  and  rejoiced  in  the  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  so.  But  my  mind  had  changed.  I 
know  not  how,  but  I  was  just  as  certain  that  An- 
drew had  remained  faithful  to  me  as  if  he  himself 
had  told  me,  and  being  so  assured  I  would  have 
suffered  myself  to  be  thrown  into  the  fire  rather 
than  marry  any  one  else.  I  waited  till  my  uncle  had 
done  speaking,  and  then,  with  a  calmness  which 
amazed  myself,  I  told  him  of  my  determination. 

"  Tut  !"  said  he  ;  "  let  me  hear  no  such  girlish 
folly.  You  will  do  what  I  consider  best  for  you, 
and  take  care  you  do  it  with  a  good  grace  or  it  will 
be  the  worse  for  you." 

"  Nay,  do  not  be  severe  with  Yevette,"  said  my 
aunt.  "  All  girls  think  it  necessary  to  put  on  such 
airs  and  make  such  declarations.  Leave  her  to  me.' ' 

Left  to  my  aunt  1  was,  and  I  set  myself  to  soften 
her  heart  toward  me.  I  begged  only  to  be  allowed 


4io  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

to  remain  single,  promising  to  be  guided  by  her  in 
everything  else — to  perform  any  menial  service,  to 
work  my  fingers  to  the  bone.  All  was  in  vain. 
My  aunt  laughed  at  my  entreaties,  considering  them 
only  as  the  wilfulness  of  a  child  ;  told  me  the  time 
would  come  when  I  would  thank  her  for  not  yield- 
ing to  my  folly.  Finally  losing  patience,  as  I  con- 
tinued weeping,  she  let  me  feel  the  iron  hand  masked 
under  the  velvet  glove.  She  told  me  in  severe 
tones  that  my  wilfulness  was  unbearable,  and  that 
unless  I  gave  way  and  did  what  was  thought  best 
for  me  I  should  be  sent  to  that  same  Carmelite 
convent  to  be  brought  to  my  senses. 

"  We  have  wished  to  be  kind  to  you,"  she  add- 
ed ;  "  but  there  are  means  of  subduing  refractory 
girls  which  the  good  sisters  well  know  how  to  prac- 
tise, and  of  which  you  shall  make  trial  if  you  are 
disobedient.  Now  go  to  your  room,  dry  your  eyes, 
and  let  me  see  you  looking  your  best  when  Monsieur 
de  Luynes  comes  this  evening." 

1  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  comply.  My  resolu- 
tion was  fixed  as  ever.  They  might  send  me  to  the 
Carmelites,  starve  me,  bury  me  alive  if  they  would, 
but  I  would  never  marry — never  !  However,  I 
thought  best  to  temporize.  The  evening  found  me 
dressed,  my  aunt  herself  looking  over  my  toilette 
and  commending  my  docility. 

"  I  thought  you  would  see  the  propriety  of  giving 
way,"  said  she  ;  "  and  I  am  glad  for  your  sake 
you  have  done  so.  You  would  not  have  liked  to 
be  ishut  up  alone  in  the  charnel-house  of  the  convent, 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          411 

without  light  or  food  for  twenty-four  hours  together, 
as  happened  to  a  cousin  of  my  own  who  set  herself 
up  against  her  father's  authority.  I^o,  it  is  much 
better  to  be  in  my  salon  than  in  the  company  of 
mouldy  skeletons. ' ' 

1  held  my  tongue  ;  but  I  could  have  said  that 
I  should  have  preferred  the  society  of  the  mouldiest 
Carmelite  ever  buried  in  sackcloth  to  that  of 
Monsieur  de  Luynes.  The  kind  old  man  was  very 
attentive  to  me,  made  many  gallant  speeches,  and 
presented  me  with  a  magnificent  box  of  bon-bons 
and  preserved  fruits,  containing  also  a  beautiful 
pearl  clasp.  I  almost  wished  I  could  have  loved 
him,  and  indeed  if  my  heart  had  not  been  full  of 
another  I  believe  I  should  have  married  him,  if  only 
to  escape  from  my  present  state  of  servitude.  But 
there  it  was  :  I  loved  Andrew.  I  should  always 
love  him,  and  I  could  never  marry  any  one  else, 
whether  I  ever  saw  him  again  or  not. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  I  should  never 
have  been  left  alone  with  my  intended  bridegroom 
till  after  the  ceremony  ;  but  my  aunt  had  a  great 
opinion  of  the  discretion  and  goodness  of  Monsieur 
de  Luynep,  which  indeed  he  well  deserved.  She 
also  trusted  a  good  deal,  I  fancy,  to  his  powers  of 
persuasion,  for  she  allowed  him  more  than  once  to 
remain  tete-d-tete  with  me  for  an  hour  or  two  at  a 
time  in  the  little  salon,  while  she  entertained  her 
visitors  or  gave  audience  to  the  tradespeople  who 
were  busied  with  my  wedding  outfit.  On  one  of 
these  occasions  I  took  a  desperate  resolution  and 


412  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

opened  to  Monsieur  de  Luynes  my  whole  heart. 
Monsieur  tried  hard  to  shake  me,  promising  me 
every  sort  of  good,  and  even  going  so  far  as  to  hint 
that  I  should,  in  the  course  of  nature,  outlive  him  ; 
and  then,  being  a  widow,  I  could  go  where  I  liked 
and  do  as  I  pleased.  Finding,  however,  that  even 
this  agreeable  prospect  failed  to  move  me,  and  that 
I  was  settled  in  my  resolution,  after  two  or  three 
interviews  he  bade  me  farewell  with  much  kindness, 
and  going  to  my  uncle  formally  retracted  his  suit, 
saying  that  he  would  never  wed  an  unwilling  bride. 
My  aunt's  anger  was  loud  and  voluble  ;  my 
uncle's  more  silent  and  much  more  terrible.  He 
said  litUe  except  to  bid  me  retire  to  my  room. 
Here  I  remained  till  evening,  without  notice  of  any 
kind.  That  night  my  lodging  was  changed  to  a 
bare  attic  at  the  •  top  of  the  house,  lighted  only  by 
a  window  in  the  roof,  and  furnished  with  a  pallet 
bed,  a  straw  chair,  and  a  crucifix,  with  its  vessel  of 
holy  water  underneath.  Into  this  cell  I  was  locked 
by  my  uncle's  own  hands,  and  here  I  remained 
prisoner  for  a  fortnight,  seeing  nobody  but  my 
aunt's  women,  who  once  a  day  brought  me  a  meagre 
supply  of  coarse  food.  I  had  but  one  companion — 
an  ugly  gray  cat,  which  lived  in  the  neighboring 
garret,  and  made  her  way  to  my  cell  through  a  hole 
in  the  wainscot,  attracted,  I  suppose,  by  the  smell  of 
my  soup.  She  shared  my  meals  by  day  and  my 
bed  at  night,  and,  I  doubt  not,  sincerely  regretted 
my  departure.  I  have  always  loved  and  patronized 
ugly  gray  cats  for  her  sake. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          413 

I  was  happier  in  this  garret  than  I  had  been  be- 
fore in  a  long  time.  I  had  lived  absolutely  with- 
out prayer  ever  since  my  illness,  for  my  repetitions 
of  the  rosary  might  as  well  have  been  repetitions  of 
"  Cruel  Barbara  Allen,"  for  all  the  devotion  there 
had  been  in  them.  But  somehow  my  firm  decision 
not  to  marry  any  one  but  my  first  love  had  brought 
help  and  comfort  to  me.  It  had  been  a  step  in  the 
right  direction.  When  first  locked  into  my  prison 
cell  I  had  thrown  myself  on  my  knees  and  besought 
help  from  Heaven  to  hold  firm  my  resolution.  That 
prayer  had  opened  the  way  for  others.  I  began  to 
review  my  life  and  sincerely  to  repent  the  sins  which 
had  brought  me  into  such  straits.  I  saw  and  recog- 
nized the  fact  that  the  double-mindedness  which 
had  always  been  my  bane  had  in  this  instance  lain  at 
the  root  of  my  apostasy.  I  confessed  the  justice  of 
my  Heavenly  Father,  and  was  enabled  wholly  to  sur- 
render myself  into  his  hands  for  time  and  eternity  ; 
and  I  received  comfort,  and  even  joy,  such  as  I  had 
never  found  before.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  my 
uncle  visited  me  again  and  inquired  whether  I  were 
now  ready  to  submit  my  will  to  his.  Modestly,  I 
hope,  but  certainly  with  firmness,  I  declared  my 
determination  unchanged,  and  was  ordered  instantly 
to  prepare  for  a  journey. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


YOU    SHALL    HAVE   NO   CHOICE." 

EXPECTED  nothing  less  than  to  be  taken 
at  once  to  the  Carmelite  convent  with 
which  I  had  been  threatened.  I  was 
therefore  agreeably  surprised  when,  on 
being  led  to  the  courtyard  I  found  all  my  uncle's 
servants  assembled,  and  his  own  travelling-carriage 
waiting,  with  my  aunt  already  seated  in  it.  There 
were  three  vacant  places,  one  of  which  I  was  desired 
to  take,  while  mj  uncle  placed  himself  in  the  other, 
and  my  aunt's  gentlewoman  took  the  fourth.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  running  back  and  forth  for  small 
packages  whicli  had  been  forgotten,  a  great  deal  of 
ordering  and  counter-ordering,  of  pulling  at  straps 
and  examining  of  buckles  ;  but  at  last  all  was  ready, 
and  we  set  out.  My  aunt  had  not  spoken  to  me  at 
all,  but  as  we  passed  a  fine  house  which  was  being 
newly  repaired  and  decorated  she  broke  out  with, 

"And  to  think,  ungrateful  girl,  that  all  that 
might  have  been  yours,  and  you  must  throw  it  all 
away  for  a  whim  !' ' 

I  made  no  answer,  for  there  was  nothing  to  be  said. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          415 

"  There  is  no  use  in  talking  further  on  that  matter, 
madame,"  said  my  uncle  ;  "  Yevette  has  made  her 
decision,  and  she  must  abide  the  consequences. 
Henceforth  she  will  have  no  choice  as  to  what  she 
will  do.  All  will  be  decided  for  her,  and  it  is  pos- 
sible she  may  come  to  regret  Monsieur  de  Luynes. " 

"  That  may  well  be,  my  uncle,  since  Monsieur  de 
Luynes  was  a  true  friend,  who  did  not  expect  to 
gain  any  hidden  treasures  by  his  kindness,"  I  an- 
swered. "  But  I  shall  never  regret  having  acted 
honorably  by  him,  whatever  happens." 

My  uncle  bit  his  lip,  as  well  he  might,  and 
I  saw  the  waiting-woman  look  out  of  the  window 
to  hide  a  smile.  She  knew  all  about  my  uncle's 
journey  to  Normandy,  and,  like  others  of  her  class, 
she  enjoyed  a  hit  at  her  betters. 

"  Be  silent  !"  said  my  uncle  sternly  ;  "  nobody 
wishes  to  hear  the  sound  of  your  voice.  Speak  only 
when  you  are  spoken  to. ' ' 

1  obeyed,  and,  indeed,  I  had  no  inclination  to 
talk.  The  morning  was  beautiful,  and  the  spring 
was  just  coming  on,  and,  forlorn  as  it  looked,  I  was 
delighted  to  see  the  open  country  once  more,  and 
to  breathe  an  air  not  poisoned  with  the  thousand  and 
one  smells — not  to  use  a  stronger  word — of  Paris. 
The  king  could  indeed  crush  and  impoverish  his 
poor  people  to  maintain  his  armies  and  his  mis- 
tresses, but  he  could  not  hinder  the  wild  flowers 
from  blooming  nor  the  birds  from  singing.  My 
spirits  rose  insensibly,  and  I  more  than  once  caught 
myself  on  the  point  of  breaking  out  into  a  song.  My 


416  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

uncle  sat  back  in  the  corner  and  said  nothing.  My 
aunt  kept  up  a  perpetual  prattle  with  Susanne,  now 
bewailing  her  banishment  from  Paris  and  the  court, 
now  remarking  upon  this  or  that  fine  lady,  and 
listening  to  the  tittle-tattle  in  which  Susanne  was  a 
proficient.  At  last  my  uncle  said  he  would  ride 
on  horseback  a  while,  so  his  groom  was  called  up 
with  the  spare  horse,  and  we  women  were  left  to 
ourselves.  Then  my  aunt  fell  upon  me,  and  such 
a  rating  as  she  gave  me  !  I  have  heard  English 
women  scold,  but  I  never  heard  any  fish  woman  equal 
my  elegant,  double-refined  aunt,  Madame  de  Fay- 
rolles.  She  worked  herself  up  into  such  a  passion 
that  she  told  a  good  deal  more  than  she  meant,  and 
thus  I  learned  that  my  Lord  Stantoun  had  returned 
a  very  short  and  sharp  answer  to  Monsieur  de  Fay- 
rolles'  letter,  absolutely  refusing  to  let  him  have  any 
of  the  property  intrusted  to  him,  and  requiring  that 
I  should  at  once  return  to  England.  So  my  friends 
had  not  quite  forgotten  or  forsaken  me.  That  was 
some  comfort,  but  I  dared  not  say  so.  My  aunt 
went  on,  growing  more  and  more  excited,  till  she 
ended  with, 

"  And  when  I  thought  at  least  I  should  have  you 
to  help  me  at  Fayrolles,  to  draw  patterns  for  my 
embroidery,  and  sing  and  read  aloud  to  me,  I  can- 
not even  enjoy  that." 

"  But  indeed,  aunt,  I  will  do  anything  for  you — 
singing  or  reading,  or  whatever  you  please,"  I 
said  soothingly,  for  I  was  afraid  of  one  of  her  fits 
of  nerves.  "  There  is  nothing  in  my  power  that  I 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.         417 

will  not  do  for  you  if  you  will  let  me,  at  Fayrolles 
or  anywhere  else.  You  know  we  agreed  to  work 
chairs  upon  satin  for  the  salon,  and  I  have  several 
patterns  drawn  already." 

"  Yes,  but  you  won't  be  at  Fayrolles  !"  said  my 
aunt  between  her  sobs  ;  and  then,  catching  a  warn- 
ing glance  from  Susaune,  she  said  no  more. 

Then  I  was  not  to  go"  to  Fayrolles  !  What  did 
they  mean  to  do  with  me  ?  To  send  me  back  to 
England  ?  That  was  not  likely,  after  what  my  uncle 
had  said  about  my  having  no  choice.  Probably  I 
should  be  placed  in  some  country  convent,  where  I 
should  be  out  of  reach  of  all  help,  whatever  hap- 
pened, and  where  no  one  would  ever  hear  from  me 
again.  This  was  what  I  dreaded  of  all  things.  I 
had  almost  given  up  any  belief  in  the  faith  I  had 
lately  professed,  and  the  question  occurred  to  me 
whether  I  ought  not  openly  to  confess  the  change 
which  had  come  over  me.  I  knew  only  too  well 
what  such  a  confession  involved — either  a  life-long 
imprisonment  or  a  horrible  death — perhaps  being 
left  to  perish  by  inches  in  some  underground  cell, 
amid  rats  and  vermin.  Such  things  happened  all 
the  time.  Worse  even  than  that,  I  knew  that  many 
of  the  convents  were  sinks  of  iniquity — places  of  re- 
sort for  idle  young  gentlemen  and  wickeder  women, 
like  that  of  Port  Royal,  which  afterward  passed 
through  so  many  vicissitudes.  I  am  very  far  from 
saying  that  they  were  all  of  this  character,  but  a 
great  many  of  them  were  so,  even  taking  the  ac- 


4i 8  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

counts  of  Roman  Catholics  themselves.*  A  resi- 
dence in  such  a  community  was  no  pleasant  pros- 
pect. And  was  I,  after  all,  ready  to  die  for  my 
faith  ?  Had  I  indeed  any  assured  faith  to  die  for  ? 
Might  not  Father  Martien  be  right  after  all  ?  My 
mind  was  tossed  upon  a  sea  of  doubt  and  conjec- 
ture, and  for  a  time  found  no  rest ;  but  at  last  I 
was  enabled  to  pray,  and  to  cast  myself,  more  com- 
pletely than  I  had  ever  done  before,  upon  the 
arms  of  mercy.  I  asked  for  light  and  help  above 
all  things,  and  light  and  help  were  given  me,  not 
all  at  once,  but  by  degrees.  I  became  sensible  of  a 
sweet  calm  and  clearness  of  mind,  in  which  I  saw 
all  things  more  plainly.  I  felt  sure  that  my  many 
sins  had  been  forgiven  and  washed  away,  and  that 
when  the  time  came  for  action  I  should  have 
strength  given  me  to  act  for  the  best.  I  had  plenty 
of  time  for  my  own  thoughts,  for  my  uncle  soon  re- 
entered  the  carriage,  and  after  that  my  aunt  did  not 
venture  to  speak  to  me  again,  though  she  talked  at 
me  whenever  there  was  a  chance.  She  was  a 
woman  who  bore  discomfort  of  any  kind  very  ill, 
and  the  more  weary  she  grew  with  her  journey 
the  more  unbearable  grew  her  peevish  fretf illness. 
At  last  my  uncle  was  moved  to  speak  sharply  to 
her,  whereupon  she  fell  into  one  of  her  nervous 
tits,  and  I  had  to  exert  all  my  skill  to  keep  her 
from  throwing  herself  out  of  the  carriage.  "With 
much  expenditure  of  coaxing  and  soothing  I  got 

*  See  Racine'H  Memoirs  of  Port  Royal.     Letters  of  St.  Frmi- 
cis  de  Sales,  and  almost  any  free  spokt-n  memoirs  of  the  MIIK-. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          419 

her  quieted  at  last,  and  persuaded  her  to  take  some 
refreshment,  after  which  she  fell  asleep.  I  fancy 
my  attentions  softened  her  heart  toward  me,  for 
she  was  much  more  kind  to  me  during  the  rest  of 
the  day,  and  I  thought  even  interceded  for  me  with 
her  husband  ;  but  if  so  it  was  without  avail,  and 
even  increased  my  troubles.  For  the  whole  of  the 
next  day  I  travelled  with  my  former  maid,  Zelie,  and 
the  old  woman  I  had  spoken  of.  They  understood 
my  disgrace  well  enough,  and  did  all  in  their  power 
to  make  me  feel  it,  treating  me  with  the  utmost 
insolence  and  neglect,  so  that  at  the  inns  where  we 
stopped  I  had  the  most  wretched  lodgings  imagi- 
nable, and  really  went  hungry  while  my  jailers, 
for  such  they  were,  feasted  upon  dainties  at  my 
uncle's  expense.  In  this,  however,  they  overshot 
the  mark  and  brought  themselves  into  trouble.  My 
uncle,  remarking  in  the  morning  upon  my  extreme 
paleness,  asked  whether  I  was  ill. 

"No,  monsieur,"  I  answered,  "I  am  not  ill, 
but  1  am  hungry.  I  have  had  not  a  morsel  since 
yesterday  noon  but  some  crusts  of  mouldy  black 
bread,  which  I  could  not  have  eaten  if  I  had  been 
starving. ' ' 

Monsieur  turned  angrily  upon  Zelie,  who  stam- 
mered and  denied  and  charged  me  with  falsehood  ; 
but  my  uncle  knew  me  well  enough  to  believe  what 
I  said,  and  my  face  spoke  for  itself.  I  was  once 
more  removed  to  my  aunt's  carriage,  and  fared  as 
she  did,  and  the  rest  of  the  way  was  more  com- 
fortable. Susanne  had  always  been  friendly  to  me. 


420  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

During  my  imprisonment  she  had  more  than  ouce 
smuggled  comforts  into  my  cell,  and  when  we  were 
alone  together  she  spoke  to  me  with  kindness  and 
pitj.  My  aunt's  heart  evidently  softened  to  me 
more  and  more,  but  my  uncle  was  implacable.  To 
cross  him  once  was  to  make  him  an  enemy  for- 
ever ;  I  had  disappointed  him  in  every  way,  and  he 
meant  to  make  me  feel  the  full  force  of  his  dis- 
pleasure. 

I  had  gathered  from  the  servants  that  our  first 
destination  was  Marseilles.  As  we  drew  near  that 
city  we  passed  company  after  company  of  unhappy 
wretches  destined  for  the  galleys,  laboring  along, 
chained  together,  and  driven  like  cattle  to  the 
slaughter.  Many  of  them  were  condemned  for  no 
crime  but  that  of  having  attended  a  preaching,  or 
prayed  in  their  own  families  —that  of  being  Protest- 
ants, in  short — and  these  were  linked  oftentimes  to 
the  most  atrocious  criminals,  whose  society  must 
have  been  harder  to  bear  than  their  chains.  But 
more  than  once  or  twice  man's  cruelty  was  turned 
to  the  praise  of  God,  and  the  criminal  was  con- 
verted by  the  patience  and  the  instructions  of  his 
fellow. 

As  we  passed  one  of  these  sad  cavalcades  my 
uncle  stopped  the  coach  to  ask  some  questions,  and 
I  was  brought  face  to  face  with  one  I  knew  right 
well.  It  was  an  aged  preacher  who  had  long  known 
ray  father,  and  had  often  been  at  our  home  in  Nor- 
mandy. I  had  no  mind  to  have  him  recognize  me, 
and  I  turned  away  my  face  to  hide  my  overflowing 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          421 

tears.  Monsieur  did  not  at  first  recognize  the  old 
preacher,  but  the  other  knew  him  in  a  moment, 
and  called  him  by  name. 

"  What,  Monsieur  Morin,  is  this  you  !"  said  my 
uncle  ;  "I  thought  you  were  dead  !" 

"  I  soon  shall  be,"  answered  the  old  man  calmly. 
"  Happily  forme,  I  am  more  than  seventy  years  old, 
and  my  prison-doors  must  soon  be  opened.  Then 
I  shall  receive  my  reward  ;  but  you — ah,  Henri, 
my  former  pupil,  whom  I  so  loved,  how  will  it  be 
with  you  ?  Oh,  repent,  while  there  is  yet  time  ! 
There  is  mercy  even  for  the  denier  and  the  apos- 
tate !" 

For  all  answer,  my  uncle,  transported  with  rage, 
lifted  his  cane  and  stiuck  the  old  man  a  severe 
blow.  The  very  criminals  cried  shame  upon  him, 
and  the  young  officer  in  charge  hastened  to  the  spot, 
and  with  expressions  of  pity  offered  his  own  hand- 
kercliief  to  the  poor  old  man,  whose  brow  was  cut 
and  bleeding. 

"  Well,"  said  my  uncle,  turning  to  me,  and 
seeing,  I  suppose,  what  I  thought,  "  how  do  you 
like  the  way  your  former  friends  are  treated  ?  How 
would  you  like  to  share  their  lot  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  be  that  old  man  than  you,  mon- 
sieur !"  I  returned,  on  fire  with  indignation.  "  I 
would  rather  be  the  helpless  prisoner  than  the  cow- 
ard that  abuses  him  !" 

"  Coward  !"  repeated  my  uncle,  white  with  rage. 

"  Dastard,  if  you  like  it  better  !"  I  returned, 
reckless  of  consequences.  "  To  strike  a  helpless 


422  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

man  is  cowardly  ;  to  strike  an  old  and  feeble  man  is 
dastardly  !" 

Monsieur  de  Fayrolles,  like  others  of  his  stamp, 
was  easily  put  down  when  any  one  stood  up  to  him, 
I  have  seen  him  fairly  outfaced  by  his  own  valet. 
He  muttered  something  between  his  teeth.  MY 

o  */ 

aunt,  who,  to  do  her  justice,  was  greatly  shocked, 
put  a  little  money  into  the  old  man's  hand,  and  the 
carriage  moved  on. 

We  arrived  at  Marseilles  about  noon,  and  my 
heart  bounded  with  joy  as  I  saw  in  the  harbor  a  ship 
with  English  colors.  Could  it  be  that  I  was  to  be 
sent  back  to  England  after  all  ?  I  was  soon  unde- 
ceived. We  drove  through  the  town  to  a  convent 
which  stood  by  itself,  surrounded  as  usual  with  a 
high  wall.  Here  the  carriage  stopped.  My  uncle 
and  aunt  alighted,  and  were  admitted  by  the  por- 
tress, and  I  remained  in  the  carriage  with  Susanne. 
A  number  of  men  who  looked  like  carpenters  were 
returning  from  their  work,  and  passed  us,  glancing 
at  the  carriage  as  they  did  so.  "  Here  is  another 
of  the  king's  passenger  birds  !"  I  heard  one  of 
them  say.  I  was  trying  to  think  what  he  could 
mean,  when  a  sort  of  overseer  who  was  following 
the  men  looked  at  me,  stopped,  and  called  me  by 
name.  It  was  my  foster-brother,  David  Sablot. 

"  Mademoiselle  !  mademoiselle  !"  said  Susanne. 

"  Ah,  Susanne,  it  is  my  foster-brother,  perhaps 
the  last  friend  I  shall  ever  see,"  I  pleaded.  "  Let 
me  speak  to  him  for  but  one  moment." 

"  Speak  quickly,  then,"  said  Susanne,  and  with 


The  Chevalier s  Daughter.          423 

that  she  turned  her  back  to  me  and  began  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"  I  thought  you  were  safe  in  England,  Yevette," 
said  David,  in  English.  "  What  brings  you  here  ?" 

"My  own  folly  and  wickedness,"  I  answered. 
' '  But  I  cannot  tell  you  the  story  now.  David,  if 
you  ever  loved  me,  go,  or  send  to  Lord  Stantoun, 
at  Stantoun  Court,  near  Biddeford,  in  Devonshire. 
Tell  him  you  saw  me  here  a  prisoner.  Watch  what 
they  do  with  me,  and  carry  him  word.  Tell  An- 
drew Corbet  that  I  have  always  loved  him,  and  al- 
ways shall.  But  how  are  you  here  in  safety  ?" 

"  I  am  of  too  much  use  for  iny  master  to  spare 
me,  and  so  he  gives  me  protection,"  was  the  reply  ; 
"  but  it  will  not  be  for  long.  But  what  of  my 
father  and  mother — of  inadame  ?  Do  you  know 
anything  ?' ' 

"  Maman  is  in  heaven.  Your  parents  are  at  Tre 
Madoc,  in  Cornwall,  living  in  comfort.  My  lord 
will  tell  you.  David,  have  you  a  little  Gospel  ?" 

He  took  from  an  inner  pocket  a  little  thin,  worn 
book,  made  for  concealment — the  Gospel  of  St. 
Luke. 

"  Give  it  me — I  have  none,"  said  I,  and  he  put 
it  into  my  hand. 

"  Lucille,"  said  I. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  her,"  was  the  sorrowful  an- 
swer. "  Since  she  left  Sartilly  I  have  heard  once 
that  she  escaped,  and  again  that  she  was  dead.  De- 
pend upon  me,  Yevette  !"  Then,  as  Susanne  made 
a  warning  sign,  he  pressed  my  hand  and  passed  on. 


424  The  Chevalier s  Daughter. 

The  convent  gate  was  once  more  opened,  and  I 
was  summoned  to  descend.  I  was  led  by  a  nun 
through  a  long  passage,  then  along  a  cloister  which 
bounded  one  side  of  the  convent  burial-place,  and 
at  last  into  the  parlor,  where  sat  my  uncle  and 
aunt.  Behind  the  grating  stood  a  lady  in  convent- 
ual dress,  whom  I  judged  to  be  the  Superior.  She 
looked  like  a  fussy,  important  sort  of  personage, 
but  she  had  a  kind,  motherly  face.  Behind  her 
stood  two  other  nuns,  in  the  dress  of  the  Ursu- 
lines. 

"This  is  the  young  lady,"  said  my  uncle,  pre- 
senting me  to  the  Superior.  "  I  trust  she  may  be 
a  credit  to  those  friends  who  have  ex  erted  them- 
selves to  provide  for  her.  As  you  have  the  king's 
letter  and  the  other  papers,  reverend  mother,  it 
will  not  be  needful  for  us  to  trespass  longer  on  your 
valuable  time."  So  saying,  and  without  a  word  of 
leave-taking,  he  took  rny  aunt's  hand  and  led  her 
away. 

"  So  you  are  the  last  !"  said  the  Superior,  ad- 
dressing me  not  unkindly.  "  You  do  not  look  so 
very  strong  for  a  colonist,  I  must  say  ;  but  since 
you  have  the  king's  own  letter  there  is  nothing  to 
be  said.  "What  think  you,  my  sister  ?"  turning  to 
the  elderly  woman  who  stood  behind  her. 

"  I  think  his  Majesty  is  beside  himself,"  an- 
swered the  latter,  with  a  bluntness  which  somehow 
surprised  me  while  it  made  me  like  her.  "  She  looks 
much  fitter  to  help  Sister  Therese  in  the  school- 
room, or  Sister  Veronique  with  her  embroidery,  than 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          425 

to  rough  it  in  a  new  country.  Have  you  been  ill, 
child  ?" 

"  No,  madarae,"  I  answered,  "  but  I  am  weary 
with  my  journey." 

"  You  should  say  reverend  mother,"  corrected 
the  nun  not  ungently.  "  We  do  not  keep  worldly 
titles  and  family  names  here,  like  the  ladies  of  the 
Sacred  Heart.  We  are  all  mothers  and  sisters. 
Would  it  not  be  well,  my  mother,  for  this  child  to 
rest  for  a  while  before  joining  her  companions  for 
the  voyage  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  you  always  know  best,  dear 
sister,"  answered  the  other  lady.  "Let  her  rest, 
and  have  a  good  supper." 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  child.  There,  sit  down, 
and  I  will  come  to  you  presently,"  said  the  mother 
assistant,  as  I  found  she  was.  I  was  very  glad  indeed 
to  take  a  chair,  and  I  remained  alone  for  some  min- 
utes thinking  over  what  I  had  heard,  and  puzzling 
myself  to  no  purpose  over  the  hints  as  to-  colonists 
and  a  new  country  which  the  Superior  had  thrown 
out.  Before  I  had  arrived  at  any  conclusion  the 
mother  assistant  appeared  at  another  door  from  the 
one  I  had  entered,  and  bade  me  follow  her.  She 
conducted  me  along  a  gallery  and  to  a  cell,  small 
indeed  but  clean,  and  by  no  means  uncomfortable. 

"  You  can  remain  here  for  this  night,  and  I 
will  send  you  some  supper,"  said  she.  "  To-mor- 
row you  will  be  introduced  to  your  companions, 
and  to  the  sisters  who  will  have  charge  of  you  all. 
The  vessel  will  not  sail  for  several  days,  so  you  will 


426  The  Chevalier  s  Daiig  liter. 

have  time  to  get  well  rested."  And  she  departed, 
leaving  me  more  puzzled  than  ever.  I  found  a  small 
mail  in  my  cell,  and  was  glad  to  discover  therein 
some  changes  of  raiment,  all  very  plain,  and  even 
coarse.  There  were  also  some  books  of  devotion,  a 
rosary,  and  a  purse  containing  a  small  sum  of  money, 
besides  a  considerable  package  of  biscuits,  dried 
fruit,  and  comfits,  which  had  evidently  been  thrust 
in  after  the  mail  was  packed,  probably  by  Susanne. 

I  changed  my  travelling-dress,  bathed  my  face, 
and  brushed  the  dust  out  of  my  hair.  *  I  would  have 
given  almost  anything  to  open  my  Testament,  but 
this  I  dared  not  do.  I  had  hardly  made  myself 
ready  when  a  nun  entered  with  my  supper,  which 
was  good,  and  arranged  with  neatness.  There  was 
even  a  cup  of  chocolate.  The  dishes  were  set  out 
on  my  little  table,  and  the  nun,  bidding  me  take  my 
chocolate  while  it  was  fresh,  departed  and  closed  the 
door.  Then  indeed  I  did  venture  to  draw  forth  my 
precious  Gospel  and  read  a  few  words — only  a  few 
—but  they  were  like  manna  in  the  desert. 

"  And  while  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  his 
father  saw  him." 

That  was  all.  It  brought  the  whole  to  my  mind. 
I  was  the  prodigal  who  had  left  my  father's  house 
and  wasted  my  substance,  and  now  I  was  brought 
to  the  husks  indeed.  What  could  I  do  but  to  act 
like  the  poor  spendthrift — arise  and  go  to  my 
father  ?. 

I  heard  a  step  in  the  gallery,  and  thrust  my  book 
into  my  bosom.  The  step  passed,  but  I  dared  not 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          427 

take  it  out  again  just  then  ;  and,  sitting  down,  I 
ate  my  supper  with  a  good  appetite. 

"  They  mean  to  try  what  kindness  can  do  in  the 
first  place,"  I  mused.  "  I  dare  say  the  good  sister 
thought  these  sugared  apricots  would  be  so  many 
irresistible  arguments.  But  what  could  she  mean 
by  what  she  said  about  colonists  and  a  new  country  ? 
All  at  once  the  explanation  flashed  across  me  with 
the  force  of  certainty.  I  was  to  be  sent  out  to 
Canada. 

To  make  my  meaning  plain  I  must  relate  a  little 
bit  of  history. 

It  is  well  known  that  King  Louis  the  Fourteenth 
took  a  deep  interest  in  his  colony  of  New  France,  in 
America.  He  concerned  liimself  personally  in  all 
its  affairs,  public  and  private,  and  made  all  sorts  of 
laws  and  regulations  for  its  benefit.  He  was  very 
desirous  that  the  colonists  should  lead  settled  lives, 
instead  of  taking  to  the  woods  and  living  with  and 
like  the  savages,  as  a  great  many  of  them  would  have 
preferred,  to  do  and  in  fact  did,  in  spite  of  him.  He 
would  have  them  marry  and  raise  large  families,  and 
promised  premiums  in  the  shape  of  land,  provisions, 
and  so  forth,  to  those  who  did  so.  But  where  were 
the  wives  to  come  from  ?  This  also  his  Majesty 
provided,  with  the  help  of  his  ministers  and  of  the 
Jesuits,  who  were  deeply  engaged  in  the  scheme. 
He  sent  out  whole  ship-loads  of  young  women  un- 
der the  care  of  certain  devoted  ladies  and  nuns, 
which  women,  on  their  arrival,  were  sorted  out  in 
different  rooms,  according  to  their  quality — the 


428  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

peasant  girls  in  one,  the  young  ladies  in  another — 
and  the  bachelors  were  not  only  invited  but  required 
to  choose  wives  from  among  their  number,  according 
to  their  degree.  The  young  women  themselves  had 
no  choice  in  the  matter,  except  that  the  peasant 
girls  were  sometimes  allowed  to  go  out  as  servants 
in  the  families  of  such  married  people  as  were  able 
to  keep  them,  but  the  arrangement  was  not  greatly 
approved.  This  commerce  was  not  now  carried  on 
quite  so  briskly  as  had  been  the  case  several  years 
before,  but  a  ship-load  was  still  dispatched  now  and 
then.  The  girls  mostly  came  from  public  institu- 
tions or  from  families  of  peasants  overburdened  with 
children,  and  I  suppose  in  general  found  their  con- 
dition improved  by  the  change.  The  young  ladies 
or  demoiselles  -\vere  usually  the  inconvenient  rela- 
tions of  good  families  whom  it  was  desirable  to  get 
rid  of.  I  learned  afterward  from  the  Mother 
Superior,  who  did  not  object  to  a  bit  of  gossip,  that 
Monsieur  de  Fayrolles  had  represented  me  to  the 
king  as  an  illegitimate  daughter  of  his  brother,  for 
whom  he  wished  to  provide  ;  and  I  suppose  he  had 
made  me  a  kind  of  peace-offering  to  his  Majesty, 
knowing  how  jnuch  his  heart  was  engaged  in  this 
scheme.  The  offering  was  accepted,  but  I  do  not 
know  whether  or  not  it  answered  the  purpose  for 
which  it  was  meant. 

Strange  to  say,  the  thought  of  being  thus  sent  out 
to  Canada  was  rather  a  relief  to  my  mind,  after  I 
had  discovered  that  I  was  not  to  return  to  England. 
It  was  at  least  a  respite.  It  gave  room  for  some- 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          429 

thing  to  happen.  I  knew  that  there  were  also  Eng- 
lish colonies  in  North  America,  and  in  my  ignorance, 
thinking  of  that  country  as  no  larger  than  France 
or  England,  I  conceived  it  might  be  possible  to  effect 
an  escape  to  them.  I  had  little  notion  of  the  vast 
forests  and  deserts,  the  wild  beasts  and  wilder  men 
which  lay  between  New  France  and  New  England. 
At  all  events  I  was  now  in  kind  hands — that  was 
something.  I  had  contrived  to  send  word  to  my 
English  friends,  for  that  David  would  do  my  errand 
I  had  not  a  doubt.  I  resolved  to  make  the  best  of 
present  circumstances,  to  use  what  time  I  could  call 
my  own  in  meditation  on  all  I  had  learned,  and  if 
at  last  I  made  up  my  mind  definitely  that  the  way 
of  my  parents  was  the  true  way,  to  confess  my  faith 
without  fear  of  consequences.  For  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  I  was  still  in  some  sense  unsettled 
in  my  belief.  The  arguments  of  Father  Marti  en 
would  recur  to  my  mind,  and  I  did  not  always  see 
how  to  answer  them.  Still  I  was  struggling  toward 
the  shining  light  <°.t  the  head  of  the  way,  as  Mr. 
John  Bunyan  hath  it  in  his  "quaint  parable,  and  the 
light  grew  more  clear  and  the  ground  firmer  under 
my  feet  at  every  effort. 

When  the  sister  came  nfter  my  supper-dishes  she 
was  evidently  pleased  to  £ee  that  I  had  appreciated 
her  dainties. 

"  You  look  better,  child,"  she  said  kindly. 

"  I  am  better,  thank  you,  sister,"  I  answered. 
"  I  feel  much  refreshed." 

"  Why,  that  is  well,"  said  she.      "  The  reverend 


430  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter* 

mother  says  you  need  not  attend  the  evening  ser- 
vice, as  you  seem  so  much  fatigued  with  your  jour- 
ney. She  advises  you  to  go  early  to  rest,  and  to- 
morrow she  will  see  and  talk  with  you,  and  you 
shall  be  introduced  to  the  holy  mother  who  has 
charge  of  the  expedition." 

"  When  does  the  ship  sail  ?"  I  ventured  to  ask, 
seeing  I  had  guessed  rightly. 

"  Some  time  next  week,  I  believe,  but  I  am  not 
certain.  I  hope  so,  I  am  sure  ;  for  these  girls  turn 
the  house  upside  down,  and  I  must  say  that  I  don't 
think  a  marriage  brokerage  quite  the  business  for 
nuns.  But  what  am  I  saying?"  and  she  crossed 
herself.  "No  doubt  our  superiors  know  best. 
My  unlucky  tongue  is  always  getting  me  into 
trouble." 

"Never  mind,''  said  I,  seeing  that  she  looked 
rather  appealingly  at  me  ;  "  I  am  no  tale-bearer? 
you  may  be  sure.  I  dare  say  the  young  people  are 
a  great  trouble,  but  I  will  try  not  to  make  more 
than  I  can  help,"  I  added,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  you — you  are  a  young  lady — that  is  plain 
to  be  seen.  "WTiere  are  you  from  ?' ' 

"  From  Normandy,"  I  answered.  "  My  foster- 
mother  lived  not  very  far  from  Granville. " 

"  I  have  been  there,"  said  the  nun  ;  "I  was  in 
the  hospital  at  Sartilly." 

How  I  longed  to  ask  about  Lucille,  but  I  dared 
not  do  so  for  fear  of  inconvenient  questions. 

"  And  have  you  ever  travelled  ?"  asked  the  nun, 
who  was  called,  as  she  told  me,  Sister  St.  Stanislaus. 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          431 

I  replied  that  I  had  been  in  England,  and  had 
therefore  crossed  the  Channel  twice. 

"  And  were  you  ill  ?" 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  I  answered. 

"  Mother  Mary  will  be  glad  to  hear  that,  for  she 
is  always  ill  the  whole  voyage  through.  She  has 
made  it  two  or  three  times.  There,  I  must  not  stay 
any  longer.  I  will  come  in  the  morning  to  lead 
you  to  the  chapel,  and  afterward  to  the  Superior's 
apartment,  where  you  will  see  Mother  Mary  of  the 
Incarnation.  *  Then  good-night,  child.  Rest  well. ' ' 

I  thanked  the  good  sister,  for  whom  I  had  already 
conceived  a  great  regard,  and  she  withdrew.  I  was 
glad  enough  to  obey  her  recommendation  and  go 
to  rest,  for  between  fatigue  and  excitement  I  was 
fairly  worn  out.  The  bed,  though  narrow  and 
hard,  was  very  clean,  arid  smelled  of  lavender.  I 
read  in  my  Gospel  as  long  as  the  fading  light  would 
allow,  and  then,  carefully  concealing  it,  I  said  my 
prayers  and  lay  down,  feeling  greatly  comforted  and 
reassured,  though  I  should  have  been  puzzled  to  ac- 
count for  my  state  of  mind.  Certainly,  my  circum- 
stances were  not  promising. 

*  Mother  Mary  of  the  Incarnation  is  a  real  historical  person- 
age, though  I  have  taken  a  liberty  with  her  in  bringing  her 
back  to  France  at  this  time. — L.  E.  G. 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 


THE  CONVENT. 


SLEPT  till  waked  by  the  rays  of  the  sun 
coming  through  the  uncurtained  window. 
It  was  yet  early,  but  I  heard  people  astir, 
so  I  got  up.  I  dressed  myself  neatly  in 
one  of  my  new  gowns,  and  put  up  my  hair  under  a 
white  kerchief.  I  could  not  but  smile  as  I  regarded 
myself  in  the  little  mirror  contained  in  my  etui,  and 
thought  of  the  contrast  between  my  present  plain 
woollen  dress  and  that  my  aunt  had  been  so  solici- 
tous about  when  I  was  presented  to  Monsieur  de 
Luynes.  I  was  still  holding  the  mirror  in  my 
hand  when  Sister  St.  Stanislaus  entered. 

"  Good-morning,  my  child."  Then,  catching 
sight  of  what  I  held,  "  A  mirror  ?  Why,  I  have 
not  seen  one  in  years.  Put  it  away  !  put  it  away  ! 
We  have  no  such  vanities  here.  Or,  stay  !"  she 
added  wistfully  ;  "  it  could  not  do  any  harm  to  take 
one  look." 

I  handed  her  the  little  glass.  She  regarded  her- 
self long  and  earnestly.  Then,  handing  it  back  to 
me, 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          433 

"  There,  put  it  away.  I  should  never  have 
known  my  own  face.  1  am  properly  punished  for 
my  vanity.  And  yet  I  was  pretty  once — as  pretty 
as  you  are. ' ' 

' '  You  are  pretty  now, ' '  said  I,  with  truth  ;  for  her 
face,  though  irregular,  and  one  which  must  have  owed 
much  to  complexion,  was  still  pleasing  from  its  kind- 
liness. "  I  loved  you  the  moment  I  saw  you." 

' '  Ah,  my  child,  you  are  a  flatterer !  Young 
people  do  usually  like  me,  but  they  say  it  is  only  be- 
cause I  spoil  them  so.  Well,  if  you  are  ready  we 
will  go  to  the  chapel. ' ' 

I  followed  the  sister  along  the  same  gallery  across 
the  open  court,  and  then  into  the  convent  church, 
where  my  companions  for  the  voyage  were  already 
assembled.  Here  she  placed  me  by  the  side  of  a 
pale,  frightened-looking  girl,  younger  than  myself, 
and  retired  to  take  her  place  in  the  choir  with  the 
other  sisters. 

I  had  only  time  to  glance  at  my  future  com- 
panions before  the  service  began.  They  were  evi- 
dently mostly  of  the  peasant  class,  and  did  not  as  a 
rule  look  at  all  oppressed  by  their  destiny,  although 
two  or  three  had  red  eyes,  and  one  at  least  was  the 
picture  of  despair.  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  her  be- 
fore, though  I  could  not  tell  where. 

After  the  service  we  breakfasted  together,  while 
one  of  the  nuns  read  aloud  the  life  of  some  juvenile 
saint  or  other,  of  whom  I  remember  no  more  than 
that  she  sat  all  day  in  the  hen-house  and  wept  for  her 
eiiis,  arid  gave  large  gifts  to  the  poor  out  of  the 


434  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

property  of  her  worldly  father  and  brother,  who  op- 
posed her  vocation.* 

After  breakfast  my  companions  went  to  the  gar- 
dens for  an  hour's  recreation,  but  I  was  called  into 
the  private  apartment  of  the  Mother  Superior.  I 
found  the  good  mother  seated  in  her  chair  of  state, 
attended  by  a  nun  and  another  lady  in  a  semi-con- 
ventual dress,  whom  I  found  was  the  famous  Mary 
of  the  Incarnation. 

This  lady  was  born  of  a  family  named  Guyard. 
Manied  at  eighteen,  not  very  happily  it  seems,  her 
husband  died  after  two  years,  leaving  her  with  a 
young  son.  But  she  was  far  too  pious  to  concern  her- 
self with  the  care  of  her  infant,  so  she  turned  it  over 
to  her  sister  and  busied  herself  with  all  sorts  of  pen- 
ances, meditations,  and  ecstasies  in  washing  dishes, 
scrubbing  floors,  and,  in  short,  performing  all  sorts 
of  work  to  which  she  had  no  call,  while  the  wrork 
which  Providence  had  put  into  her  hands — that  of 
oaring  for  her  baby — was  delegated  to  another. 
For  a  good  while  the  love  she  still  cherished  for 
this  child  kept  her  from  the  cloister,  but  at  last  she 
made  a  profession  and  adhered  to  it,  though  the 
boy,  half  crazed  by  his  loss,  made  his  way  into  the 
refectory  of  the  convent,  and  with  tears  and  screams 
of  anguish  besought  the  nuns  to  give  him  back  his 
mother.  The  poor  young  fellow  went  to  the  bad 

*  I  cannot  now  place  this  paragon  of  poodness,  though  she  is 
no  creation  of  mine.  My  impression  is  that  I  found  her  in  the 
lives  of  the  Franciscans. — L.  E.  (i. 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          435 

altogether  afterward,  and  no  wonder.  One  would 
not  expect  him  to  have  much  regard  for  religion. 

Having,  however,  conquered  the  last  small  rem- 
nant of  natural  affection  which  remained  in  her 
heart,  she  was  rewarded  by  a  wonderful  vision,  in 
which  she  was  advertised  that  the  Virgin  called  her 
specially  to  Canada. 

Thither  she  repaired,  in  company  with  several 
other  Ursuline  nuns,  and  the  famous  Madame  de 
Pel  lice,  who  made  a  mock  marriage  in  order  to  carry 
out  her  devout  schemes.  She  remained  in  Canada 
many  years,  and  having  come  to  France  on  some  im- 
portant business,  was  returning,  having  in  charge 
twenty  young  women  and  two  nuns. 

I  can  see  her  this  moment  as  she  stood  behind  the 
Superior's  chair.  She  was  a  handsome  woman  still, 
with  bright  eyes  and  a  commanding  presence,  and,  I 
must  say,  very  little  appearance  of  humility  about 
her.  I  think  I  never  saw  a  face  and  manner  more 
expressive  of  spiritual  pride  and  conscious  sanctity, 
and  this  appearance  did  not  belie  her.  She  possessed 
great  ability  for  all  sorts  of  affairs,  a  keen  penetra- 
tion in  regard  to  character,  and  withal  a  good  deal 
of  real  kindness  and  charity. 

I  was  introduced  to  this  lady,  who  received  me 
graciously  and  made  some  inquiries  as  to  my  health. 
Then  she  asked  whether  I  had  any  vocation  for 
a  religious  life. 

"  No,  madame,  I  believe  not,"  I  answered. 

"  Reverend  mother, ' '  corrected  the  Superior  again. 


436  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

"  Cannot  you  remember,  child,  that  there  are  no 
madames  here  ?" 

u  I  will  try,  reverend  mother,"  I  answered, 
whereat  she  smiled  and  said  I  was  an  apt  scholar. 

"  I  hope  she  may  prove  so,"  was  the  remark  of 
Mother  Mary.  "  Only  for  the  king's  express  com- 
mand, I  should  think  twice  before  taking  her. 
"What  do  you  know  how  to  do,  child  ?  Anything 
besides  dressing  and  dancing  and  painting  fans  ?" 

"  Yes,  madame — reverend  mother,  I  should  say," 
I  answered  ;  "  I  can  sew,  spin  and  knit,  make  lace 
and  embroider,  and  I  know  something  of  ordering  a 
household. ' ' 

"  Why,  you  will  be  quite  a  treasure  for  some 
one,"  said  Mother  Mary.  "  Can  you  sing  ?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

' '  You  might  be  very  useful  in  our  house  if  you 
only  had  a  vocation,"  said  Mother  Mary.  "  Per- 
haps you  may  find  one  yet.  However,  there  is  time 
enough  to  think  about  that.  Meantime  you  shall 
instruct  some  of  your  companions  in  the  art  of  knit- 
ting hose,  which  art  may  be  very  useful  to  them. 
Or  is  that  too  humble  an  employment  for  a  young 
lady  like  you  ?" 

"  No,  my  mother  ;  I  shall  gladly  do  that  or  any- 
thing else  whereby  I  may  be  useful  to  my  com- 
panions," I  answered.  "  I  would  rather  be  busy 
than  not." 

"  That  is  well,"  said  Mother  Mary,  relaxing  a 
little,  and  evidently  regarding  me  with  more  favor. 
"  I  wish  all  were  like  you,  but  I  would  in  general 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          437 

rather  have  charge  of  twenty  peasant  girls  than  of 
one  demoiselle.  I  dare  say  you  will  do  nicely,  child. 
I  think  I  know  the  match  that  will  just  suit  you." 

"  There  will  be  two  words  to  that  bargain,"  I 
thought,  but  I  said  nothing. 

Mother  Mary  then  commended  the  simplicity  of 
my  dress,  and  a  bell  ringing  she  took  me  by  the 
hand  and  led  me  to  the  school-room,  where  the 
young  people  were  now  all  assembled.  She  placed 
me  by  the  side  of  the  same  pale  girl,  whom  she  pre- 
sented to  me  as  Mademoiselle  de  Troyon,  and  say- 
ing that  she  would  send  me  some  knitting-needles 
and  thread  she  left  us  together.  The  other  girls 
were  busy,  under  the  superintendence  of  the  nuns,  in 
making  garments  for  themselves,  and  sad  work  they 
made  of  it,  being  more  used  to  out-door  than  to  in- 
door work.  I  believe,  however,  that  a  great  deal  of 
their  bungling  was  sheer  mischief,  and  I  wondered 
at  the  patience  of  the  nuns. 

The  requisite  tools  being  produced,  I  set  seriously 
to  work  to  teach  the  stitch  to  my  companion,  and 
she  took  so  much  pains  in  learning  that  at  the  end 
of  the  lesson  she  could  do  a  row  very  neatly.  We 
were  placed  near  a  window,  apart  from  the  others, 
and  Mother  Mary  told  us  we  might  converse  in  low 
tones.  Of  course,  like  other  young  persons,  we  soon 
became  acquainted.  I  found  that  her  name  was 
Desiree,  that  she  was  an  orphan,  and  had  always  lived 
in  a  convent  till  very  lately.  She  had  a  strong 
vocation,  and  wished  to  be  allowed  to  take  the  veil 
instead  of  marrying,  and  she  regarded  with  horror 


43 8  The  Chevalier  s  Daiighter. 

the  prospect  of  being  united  to  a  stranger  and  living 
in  a  wild  place,  surrounded  by  forests  full  of  wolves. 

"  But  why  do  you  not  take  the  veil,  since  you 
wish  it  so  much  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  the  king  wishes  two  or  tliree  officers  to 
marry  and  settle,  and  you  and  I  are  the  only 
demoiselles  who  could  be  found  to  go  out,"  was  the 
answer.  "  But  it  does  not  matter,"  she  added, 
with  a  kind  of  quiet  resolution  ;  "  I  know  that  I 
shall  never  live  to  see  Canada." 

"  Dear  Desiree,  you  should  not  be  downcast,"  I 
said.  "  Things  may  turn  out  better  than  you 
think.  Do  not  give  up  life  for  a  bad  business  ?" 

She  smiled  sadly  and  shook  her  head,  but  said  no 
more  on  the  subject.  We  had  a  good  dinner  served 
to  us  by  and  by,  and  then  two  hours  more  of  recre- 
ation in  the  garden,  overlooked  by  the  nuns  who 
had  us  in  charge.  I  was  walking  up  and  down  an 
alley  by  myself  when  I  met  Sister  St.  Stanislaus, 
who  joined  me,  and  we  walked  together. 

"  So  you  have  been  in  England,"  said  she. 
"  Can  you  speak  English  ?" 

I  told  her  I  could. 

"  I  knew  a  girl  who  could  speak  English  once," 
said  she.  "  It  was  when  I  was  at  Sartilly,  as  I  told 
you.  Poor  Lucille  !  she  came  to  a  sad  end." 

"  What  happened  to  her  ?"  I  asked,  with  a  beat- 
ing heart. 

' '  Oh,  I  don't  know  whether  I  should  tell  the  story, 
though  to  be  sure  it  maybe  a  warning,"  said  the 
sister,  divided  between  her  discretion  and  the  dea) 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.  439 

delight  of  telling  a  tale.  "  You  see  she  was  one  of 
those  unfortunate  Reformed,  to  begin  with,  and  she 
could  not  conquer  her  natural  affection  for  her  rela- 
tions; She  had  a  lover  also,  it  seems,  and  she 
slipped  out  of  the  gate  one  day  to  speak  to  him,  and 
was  seen  to  give  him  a  packet.  Well,  of  course, 
being  a  postulant  under  instruction,  that  brought 
upon  her  great  disgrace  and  many  penances.  If  I 
had  been  to  decide,  I  should  have  said  they  took 
just  the  way  to  make  her  regret  her  lover  all  the 
more.  However,  she  was  forgiven  at  last  and  taken 
into  favor  again,  but  it  was  not  long  before  she  got 
into  some  new  trouble  by  a  hasty  answer.  I  must 
say  she  had  a  trying  temper,  always  looking  out  for 
affronts.  After  that  she  grew  very  odd  and  silent. 
I  was  mistress  of  the  novices  at  that  time,  and  I 
tried  hard  to  win  her  confidence,  but  in  vain.  At  last, 
oh,  poor  thing  !  she  was  missing,  and  we  found  a 
part  of  her  clothing  hanging  on  a  bush  some  way 
down  the  river,  which  was  very  high  at  the  time. 
Either  she  drowned  herself  or  fell  in  and  was  un- 
able to  get  out.  I  hope  the  latter,  for  I  was  fond 
of  her,  though  she  made  me  a  good  deal  of  trouble. 
1  have  never  ceased  to  pray  for  her  soul,"  said  the 
good  sister,  wiping  her  eyes,  which  had  overflowed 
plentifully.  ' '  If  she  is  beyond  the  reach  of  prayers 
they  may  benefit  some  other  poor  soul  in  purgatory. 
There,  now,  I  have  made  you  cry  too.  What  a  ten- 
der heart  you  have  !  Let  it  be  a  warning  to  you, 
my  child." 

I  wondered  what  the  story  was  meant  to  warn  me 


440  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

from,  but  I  said  nothing,  and  we  began  to  talk  of 
other  things  till  the  sister  left  me,  and  then  I  had 
my  cry  out.  Poor  Lucille  !  So  this  was  the  end. 
And  she  had  actually  fallen  into  disgrace  for  trying 
to  warn  my  parents  of  their  danger  !  It  was  very 
sad,  and  yet  somehow  I  felt  comforted  about  her,  I 
could  not  tell  why.  I  was  jnst  recovering  my  com- 
posure when  I  met  Mother  Superior  and  Mother 
Mary  of  the  Incarnation  walking  together.  The  lat- 
ter seemed  to  be  laying  down  the  law  in  rather  an 
authoritative  style,  I  thought,  to  which  the  Superior 
listened  with  some  apparent  impatience,  and  at  last 
broke  out  with, 

"  No  doubt,  sister,  you  may  be  right.  I  dare  say 
you  know  how  to  rule  your  own  house  to  perfec- 
tion. I  am  sure  if  I  were  visiting  you  I  should 
never  think  for  a  moment  of  advising  you  upon  the 
management  of  your  family. ' ' 

Mother  Mary  was  not  so  dead  to  worldly  affection 
but  that  she  reddened  visibly  at  this  significant 
speech.  She  made  no  reply  to  the  Superior,  but 
turned  sharply  upon  me. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  by  yourself,  child  ? 
Crying,  I  see.  That  is  very  wrong.  Understand, 
once  for  all,  that  you  are  not  to  separate  yourself  in 
this  way  from  your  companions.  You  arc  not  so 
very  much  better  than  they.  Let  me  see  no  more 
of  it  !" 

"  I  have  not  been  alone  till  this  very  moment, 
reverend  mother,"  I  answered,  in  a  tone  which  1 
meant  to  be  very  humble.  "  I  have  been  walking 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          441 

with  Sister  St  Stanislaus,  who  was  telling  me  an 
affecting  story.  But — I  fear  I  am  very  ignorant, 
reverend  mother— I  thought  from  the  history  the 
sister  read  us  this  morning  that  solitude  and  tears 
were  among  the  most  blessed  things  to  the  soul. 
1  was  so  much  interested  in  hearing  how  that  holy 
young  lady  sat  in  the  hen-house  and  cried  all  day  by 
herself." 

The  mother  looked  fairly  posed,  as  if  she  did  not 
know  what  to  answer.  I  went  on,  prompted  by 
that  spirit  of  mischief  which  never  quite  deserted 
me  in  the  greatest  straits. 

11  And  that  other  place  was  BO  interesting,  too, 
about  her  taking  her  father's  goods  unknown  to  him 
to  give  to  the  poor.  Such  a  blessed  example  !  I 
shall  hope  to  follow  it  when  I  have  a  household  of 
my  own." 

I  saw  by  the  smile  which  the  Mother  Superior 
turned  away  to  hide  that  she  saw  through  me,  and 
I  fancied  also  that  she  was  not  displeased.  Mother 
Mary  was  spared  the  necessity  of  a  reply  which 
might  have  puzzled  her,  by  the  ringing  of  the  din- 
ner-bell. I  enjoyed  my  triumph  for  a  few  minutes, 
as  I  meekly  followed  the  elder  ladies  toward  the 
house,  and  then  I  reflected  that  1  had  done  a  foolish 
thing  in  setting  against  me  this  lady,  who  had  me  so 
entirely  in  her  power.  However,  she  had  her  re- 
venge, and  really  I  don't  think  she  liked  me  the 
worse  for  our  little  encounter.  I  am  sure  the 
Superior  did  not.  When  we  were  seated  at  the 


44 2  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

table,  and  the  nun  had  begun  to  read  according  to 
custom,  Mother  Mary  stopped  her. 

"  You  seem  to  be  rather  hoarse,  sister,"  said  she, 
though  I  had  not  noticed  it.  "  Mademoiselle 
d' Antin  is  a  good  reader,  and  she  has  a  special  devo- 
tion for  the  lives  of  the  saints.  Mademoiselle,  you 
will  take  the  sister's  place  and  read  to  us." 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey, 
and  I  took  care  to  show  no  unwillingness  for  my 
task.  I  read  my  very  best,  and  as  the  story  to-day 
happened  to  be  a  really  interesting  one,  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  more  than  one  of  my  auditors 
forget  her  dinner  for  a  moment  or  two  to  listen. 

"  That  is  well,"  said  Mother  Mary,  when  I  had 
finished.  ' '  We  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
you  again  some  time.  Now  eat  your  dinner." 

The  milk  porridge  was  rather  cold,  but  I  was  not 
troubled  at  that,  and  the  sister  whose  place  I  had 
taken  presently  brought  me  a  nice  little  omelette, 
which  she  had  procured  I  know  not  how.  Mother 
Mary  never  showed  any  ill-will  to  me  afterward. 
She  had  a  sort  of  magnanimity  about  her  which 
made  her  rule  endurable.  I  was  often  called  on 
to  read,  but  I  believe  it  was  only  because  she 
liked  to  hear  me  better  than  poor  Sister  Joanne, 
who  droned  on  like  a  drumbledrone  under  a  hat,  as 
we  say  in  these  parts.  Sister  Joanne  was  not  sorry 
to  get  rid  of  her  task,  and  my  meals  fared  none  the 
worse  for  that. 

We  went  on  in  this  same  routine  for  several  days. 
Mother  Mary  kept  a  tight  rein  over  her  own  flock, 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          443 

but  I  thought  from  what  I  observed  that  the  nuns  had 
comfortable  times  under  their  good-natured  Superior. 
They  went  through  all  their  services  and  observed 
their  hours  for  silence  and  the  rest,  but  it  was  all 
done  in  an  easy,  perfunctory  manner,  so  to  speak. 
Their  garden  and  orchard  were  beautiful,  and  they 
made  great  quantities  of  dried  and  sugared  fruits, 
and  distilled  essences  and  cordials  by  the  gallon  from 
the  sweet  flowers  and  aromatic  herbs  which  grow  so 
plentifully  in  that  part  of  France.  I  never  saw  in 
England  such  lavender  and  rosemary  as  grows  wild 
there.  I  quite  won  the  heart  of  Sister  St.  Anne  by 
giving  her  the  true  English  recipe  for  distilling 
lavender  and  making  the  Queen  of  Hungary's  water. 
I  grew  attached  to  the  good  nuns,  who  were  all  very 
kind  to  me.  My  knitting  lessons  were  extended  to 
some  of  their  number,  and  even  to  the  Superior  her- 
self, who  asked  Mother  Mary  to  allow  me  to  teach 
her,  saying  that  it  was  a  kind  of  work  that  would 
just  suit  her.  Mother  Mary  gave  the  desired  per- 
mission, adding  that  her  sister  was  happy  in  having 
time  for  such  employments.  As  for  herself,  she 
never  had  a  moment  to  sit  down  to  her  needle  from 
morning  till  night. 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  see,  dear  sister,  we  are  so  differ- 
ently situated,"  answered  Mother  Superior  meekly. 
"  Our  house  works  so  quietly  and  easily.  You  see 
we  have  no  sisters  but  such  as  are  of  good  family. 
We  are  not  obliged  to  take  up  with  any  riff-raff  the 
king  may  choose  to  send  us,  as  you  are  over  there." 

I  can't  say  I  found  the  Superior  a  very  apt  scholar. 


444  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

I  never  succeeded  in  teaching  her  how  to  turn  off  a 
heel,  and  at  last  in  despair  I  suggested  that  she 
should  knit  a  rug  for  the  cat,  which  was  a  great 
personage  and  much  petted,  though  she  had  no 
vocation  whatever.  The  rug  went  off  better,  but  I 
rather  doubt  whether  puss  has  had  the  benefit  of  it 
to  this  day. 

On  the  whole  I  was  not  unhappy  during  the  two 
weeks  I  remained  at  the  Ursuline  convent  at  Mar- 
seilles. I  did  my  best  to  please  Mother  Mary,  and 
succeeded  pretty  well.  1  think  she  appreciated  my 
efforts,  for  really  most  of  the  other  girls  were  trials 
— idle,  mischievous,  and  bending  all  their  efforts  not 
to  learn  Ine  arts  the  nuns  tried  to  teach  them.  I 
except  Desiree,  who  was  always  docile,  and  the  poor 
girl  whom  I  had  thought  I  knew.  I  got  into  con- 
versation with  her  one  day  over  our  work,  and  at 
last  she  told  me  she  had  seen  me  before. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  stopping  in  your  travel- 
ling carriage  to  speak  to  my  aunt,  the  day  after  our 
vineyard  was  destroyed  ?  The  lady  with  you  gave 
my  aunt  some  money. ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  remember  well,"  I  answered.  "  What 
became  of  your  father  ?" 

11  He  was  not  my  father,  but  my  mother's  step- 
brother," was  the  answer.  "  He  had  adopted  me, 
and  I  was  betrothed  to  his  son.  My  lord  the  mar- 
quis shot  him  dead  with  his  own  hand.  My  be- 
trothed was  arrested  on  some  pretext  of  poacliing, 
and  sent  to  the  galleys,  and  I,  because  I  would  no' 
give  him  up  and  go  into  service  in  the  Marquist 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          445 

family,  was  sent  here.  It  does  not  matter.  Bap- 
tiste  is  dead,  and  I  would  as  soon  be  here  as  any- 
where— rather  a  thousand  times  than  in  the  house 
of  that  wretch  !  I  cannot  be  worse  off.  Maybe 
they  will  let  me  live  out  as  a  servant." 

This  is  a  fair  specimen  of  what  may  be  done  by  a 
tyrannical  landowner  in  France.  By  all  I  hear, 
things  must  have  grown  worse  instead  of  better.  It 
is  a  wonder  if  they  do  not  have  an  explosion  some 
day  which  will  blow  them  all  sky-high. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE    VOYAGE. 

HE  day  at  last  came  for  our  embarkation. 
Our  luggage  was  taken  away  in  the  first 
place,  but  we  were  allowed  to  keep  each 
a  basket  containing  a  change  of  linen  and 
certain  other  necessaries.  Mother  St.  Stanislaus 
distributed  among  us  with  a  lavish  hand  biscuits, 
dried  fruit,  gingerbread,  and  peppermint  comfits, 
and  the  good  Sister  St.  Anne  smuggled  into  my 
own  basket  a  bottle  of  lavender  and  a  flask  of  a  cer- 
tain fragrant  and  spicy  cordial  which  she  had  a  great 
reputation  for  making,  and  which  was  esteemed  a 
sovereign  remedy  for  indigestion.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  indigestion  among  the  nuns  of  St. 
Ursula.  Poor  dear  souls  !  they  were  all  very  good 
to  me,  and  but  for  the  change  in  my  religions 
views  and  the  hope  I  still  cherished  of  meeting  An- 
drew once  more,  I  think  I  could  have  made  myself 
very  content  among  them.  The  mothers  kissed  me 
and  made  me  various  little  presents,  some  of  which 
I  have  still,  especially  a  medal  containing  some 
hairs  of  St.  Ursula,  given  me  by  the  Superior. 
They  are  coarse  hairs,  and  are  just  the  color  of  the 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          447 

tail  of  my  chestnut  mare.  I  think  she  sincerely  re- 
gretted my  departure,  but  I  don't  think  she  was  at 
all  sorry  to  get  rid  of  Mother  Mary,  who  was  a  re- 
ligious all  through,  taking  a  real  delight  in  all  sorts 
of  mortifications,  and  very  ready  to  impose  them  on 
others  ;  besides  that,  she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her 
help  wishing  to  take  the  management  of  matters 
into  her  own  hands,  wherever  she  was.  I  know  she 
ached  to  reform  the  Ursuliiie  Convent  from  top  to 
bottom,  and  it  was  well  for  the  comfort  of  those 
concerned  that  she  had  not  the  power  to  do  so. 

We  were  taken  in  close  carriages  from  the  con- 
vent through  the  city  to  the  place  of  embarkation. 
The  ship  could  not  be  brought  alongside  the  wharf, 
and  we  had  to  embark  a  few  at  a  time  in  the  little 
boats.  Mother  Mary,  who  had  managed  several 
such  affairs,  sent  her  two  assistant  nuns  first  to  re- 
ceive the  passengers  as  they  came,  and  herself  re- 
mained on  the  wharf  till  the  whole  company  were 
dispatched.  Desiree  and  I  were  among  the  last.  I 
was  burning  with  impatience,  for  I  saw  David  in  the 
crowd  and  close  to  me,  and  I  longed  to  slip  into  his 
hand  a  note  I  had  written  telling  him  of  the  fate  of 
poor  Lucille,  and  begging  him  to  lose  no  time  in  es- 
caping to  England.  At  last  the  chance  came.  Poor 
Louisonne,  who  was  always  doing  the  wrong  thing 
at  the  wrong  time,  did  the  right  one  for  me  and 
slipped  into  the  water.  The  bustle  and  alarm — for 
the  poor  thing  was  nearly  drowned — drew  Mother 
Mary  away  for  a  moment  and  gave  me  the  desired 
opportunity.  David  drew  near,  and  as  he  brushed 


448  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

by  me  I  put  the  note  into  his  hand.  Nobody  saw 
me  but  a  good-natured-looking  Franciscan,  who  only 
smiled  and  shook  his  head  at  me. 

At  last  we  were  all  on  board  and  introduced  to 
the  cabin,  which  was  to  be  our  lodging  for  at  least 
six  weeks.  Oh,  what  a  hole  it  was  ! — dirty,  ill- 
lighted,  not  half  furnished.  Mother  Mary  was  very 
angry,  as  I  could  see  by  her  face  ;  and  indeed  I 
heard  her  remonstrating  with  the  captain  very  en- 
ergetically on  the  subject  ;  but  he  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  said  it  was  not  his  fault.  He  had 
taken  command  of  the  ship  only  a  few  days  before, 
and  that  not  by  any  good-will  of  his  own.  He 
added,  however,  that  now  he  was  appointed  feo  the 
command  lie  meant  to  exercise  it,  and  intimated  to 
Mother  Mary  very  plainly  that  she  had  better  mind 
her  own  business.  She  certainly  had  enough  to 
mind.  Half  the  girls  were  crying  or  in  hysterics  ; 
everything  was  in  confusion.  We  were  dreadfully 
in  the  way  on  deck,  but  no  one  could  bear  the  idea 
of  going  below.  Mother  Mary  at  last  restored  some 
sort  of  quiet,  and  calling  me  to  help  her,  with  the 
remark  that  I  seemed  to  have  some  spirit  and  sense, 
we  began  to  try  to  put  our  cabin  into  better  order. 
It  was  discouraging  work,  for  everything  was  want- 
ing for  comfort  or  decency  ;  but  we  worked  hard, 
arid  by  night  we  had  things  in  better  trim.  The 
girls  had  had  their  cry  out  and  felt  for  the  time  in 
good  spirits.  We  did  not  set  sail  till  about  six  in 
the  evening,  being  kept  by  the  state  of  the  tide,  but 
at  last  we  were  off.  The  land  gradually  faded  from 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.          449 

view  ;  we  lost  sight  of  the  lights  in  the  city,  and  be- 
fore bed-time  we  were  out  in  the  open  sea,  aiid 
every  soul  but  myself  was  overcome  with  the  first 
depressing  feelings  of  sea-sickness.  I  had  a  busy 
time  enough  for  the  next  week.  Every  passengei 
was  sick,  including  Mother  Mary  herself,  who  was 
one  of  the  worst,  though  she  strove  against  the 
weakness  with  all  the  force  of  her  strong  will. 
But,  in  truth,  a  strong  will  does  little  for  one  when 
one's  heels  are  one  moment  higher  than  one's  head, 
and  the  next  knocked  violently  on  the  floor,  and 
every  portable  article  is  sliding  about  trying  its  best 
to  break  everything  else. 

"We  had  a  stormy  voyage  from  the  first,  though 
the  wdnds  were  for  the  most  part  favorable,  and  the 
passage  promised  to  be  short.  But  it  was  wretchedly 
uncomfortable.  The  ship  was  ill-found  and  hardly 
seaworthy.  She  was  crammed  with  goods,  which 
were  thrust  even  into  our  cabin,  thus  abridging  the 
small  room  allotted  to  us.  The  water  was  bad,  and 
the  sailors  stole  our  wine  ;  our  provisions  were  not 
fit  for  well  people,  not  to  say  invalids,  and  short  as 
our  passage  was  we  had  more  than  one  case  of 
scurvy.  Poor  Desiree  succumbed  under  her  hard- 
ships and  died  when  we  had  been  out  about  three 
weeks.  I  had  become  greatly  attached  to  her,  but 
I  could  not  weep  for  her  death.  It  seemed  a  mer- 
ciful deliverance. 

For  myself,  I  was  not  as  unhappy  as  I  should  have 
been  if  I  had  not  been  so  busy.  The  only  really 
well  person  of  the  party,  I  had  enough  to  do  in 


45O          The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

waiting  on  the  sick.  I  had  made  friends  with  the 
cook,  a  great  good-natured  blackamoor,  by  speaking 
to  him  in  English,  when  I  found  that  he  understood 
that  language,  and  I  cooked  our  miserable  provisions 
so  as  to  make  them  as  savory  as  possible,  and  now 
and  then  secured  a  bit  of  something  better  than  usual 
to  tempt  the  appetite  of  poor  Sister  Margaret,  who 
seemed  likely  enough  to  die  of  'exhaustion.  Going 
about  as  I  did,  I  was  often  free  to  take  out  my  little 
book  and  study  its  contents.  The  more  I  did  so,  the 
more  I  recalled  what  I  had  learned  of  the  other  Scrip- 
tures, the  more  I  wondered  how  I  could  ever  have 
so  far  departed  from  the  simplicity  of  the  Gospel  as 
to  profess  the  Roman  Catholic  religion.  I  never 
should  have  done  so  but  for  the  fact  that  my  belief 
in  all  religion  had  been  weakened  by  intercourse 
with  unbelievers,  and  my  heart  corrupted  by  love 
of  pleasure  and  of  the  world.  I  do  not  say  by  any 
means  that  this  is  true  of  all  perverts,  but  I  know 
it  was  true  of  me. 

But  now  arose  a  grave  question,  which  in  Jeed  had 
troubled  me  before.  I  felt  that  I  must  confess  my 
faith  before  men  ;  I  could  not  go  on  serving  God 
according  to  the  faith  of  my  fathers  and  worship- 
ping the  saints  at  the  same  time.  I  .could  not  be- 
lieve in  and  apply  to  the  One  Mediator,  and  at  the 
same  time  invoke  a  hundred  others.  It  may  be  easy 
for  any  one  who  reads  these  lines,  and  who  has 
never  been  in  any  danger,  to  say  what  my  conduct 
should  have  been.  l>ut  for  me,  in  the  midst  of  the 
conflict,  it  was  not  so  easy.  I  well  knew  what 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          451 

would  be  my  fate,  for  the  Jesuits  ruled  in  Canada, 
and  that  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  I  had  seen  enough 
of  Mother  Mary  to  guess  well  that  she  would  have 
no  compassion  for  a  heretic.  I  thought  and  pray e  d 
and  wept,  and  at  last  strength  seemed  to  come  to 
me.  I  had  nothing  to  do  just  now  but  to  wait  on 
my  companions.  When  the  time  came  for  help  I 
should  have  help.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  was  the 
evil  thereof. 

Help  did  come,  and,  as  so  often  happens,  through 
trouble.  We  had  been  out  five  weeks  when  we 
were  overtaken  by  a  tempest,  compared  to  which 
all  we  had  suffered  before  was  as  a  summer  breeze. 
I  do  not  know  enough  of  nautical  matters  to  de- 
scribe it.  I  know  that  for  many  days  neither  sun  nor 
stars  appeared  ;  that  we  were  tossed  up  to  the  skies 
and  then  hurled  down  to  the  abyss  ;  that  we  lost 
sail  and  masts  and  were  more  than  once  in  imminent 
danger  of  sinking  ;  and  that  when  the  storm  sub- 
sided at  last  we  drifted  in  helpless  wreck,  having 
lost  ah1  our  boats,  and  having  our  ship  so  injured 
that  the  least  increase"  in  the  storm  might  send  her 
to  the  bottom.  The  captain,  who  had  behaved  like 
a  hero,  was  busy  in  overseeing  the  construction  of 
rafts.  He  had  ordered  us  all  on  deck,  sick  and  well 
together,  in  order  to  give  us  a  last  chance,  though  a 
slender  one.  We  sat  huddled  together,  some  pray- 
ing, some  crying,  others  too  miserable  to  do  either 
— silent,  in  hopeless  despair.  Such  was  our  con- 
dition when,  happening  to  look  up,  I  was  the  very 
first  to  descry  a  sail,  and  almost  at  the  same  moment 


452  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

the  shout  was  raised  by  half  a  dozen  at  once.  It 
was  a  British  ship,  and  a  large  one.  She  was 
rapidly  coming  up  with  us,  and  our  despair  was 
changed  into  the  certainty  of  succor. 

It  was  a  work  of  some  danger  to  transfer  so  many 
helpless  women  from  one  ship  to  the  other,  but  it 
was  accomplished  at  last,  the  captain  and  Mother 
Mary  being  the  last  to  leave  the  poor  wreck.  No- 
body but  myself  understood  English,  and  I  was 
called  upon  to  interpret.  The  ship  was  the  Good 
Hope,  trading  from  Bristol  to  New  England,  and 
now  on  her  way  to  the  town  of  Boston,  from  which, 
according  to  the  reckoning  of  Captain  Mayhew,  we 
were  but  a  short  day's  sail. 

Mother  Mary  was  quite  in  despair.  She  offered 
large  rewards  to  the  captain  to  alter  his  course  and 
sail  for  the  St.  Lawrence,  but  in  vain.  The  captain 
said  his  ship  had  been  damaged,  and  was  in  no  state 
for  such  a  voyage  ;  that  he  was  overdue  at  Boston, 
and  that  his  wife  would  be  anxious  about  him.  He 
would  engage  that  Mother  Mary  and  her  companions 
should  meet  with  every  civility  and  accommodation, 
but  to  the  St.  Lawrence  he  could  not  and  would  not 
go — "and  that  was  all  about  it."  There  was  no 
opportunity  to  argue  the  matter  further,  for  poor 
Mother  Mary  was  taken  very  ill  once  more  and  had 
to  be  carried  to  the  cabin  which  the  sailors  had  hastily 
arranged  for  us.  The  captain  apologized  for  its 
narrowness,  saying  that  he  had  another  small  cabin 
\vhich  should  be  ours  so  soon  as  its  occupant,  a  gen- 
tleman passenger  who  had  been  hurt  in  the  ptorm, 


The  Chevalier's  Daughter.         453 

should  give  it  up,  adding,  however,  that  he  hoped  to 
set  us  all  on  dry  ground  before  that  time  to-morrow. 

From  the  moment  that  I  set  foot  on  the  deck  of 
the  Good  Hope  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  would  tell 
the  captain  my  story,  throw  myself  on  his  mercy, 
and  entreat  him  to  rescue  me.  If  he  refused  to  do  so 
I  would  contrive  to  effect  my  escape  while  we  were 
in  Boston.  Surely  in  a  town  full  of  Protestants 
there  must  be  some  one  who  would  protect  me. 

I  had  very  little  rest  that  night,  though  Mother 
Mary  herself,  the  sickest  of  the  party,  scolded  the 
others  for  their  demands  on  me,  and  at  last  bade  me 
lie  down  and  not  mind  them.  At  daylight  most  of 
my  charges  were  asleep,  and  I  stole  on  deck  to  com- 
pose myself  and  breathe  a  little  fresh  air.  Lo  ! 
there  before  me  lay  the  land,  green  and  fair,  clothed 
with  forest  for  the  most  part,  but  with  here  and 
there  a  clearing.  How  heavenly  it  all  looked,  but  I 
had  no  time  for  gazing.  There  stood  the  captain, 
as  I  thought,  with  his  back  to  me,  looking  toward 
the  land.  There  was  no  time  like  the  present,  and 
I  went  quickly  up  to  him. 

"  Captain  Mayhew  !"  said  I. 

The  stranger  turned,  and  I  saw  Andrew  Corbet. 
He  looked  at  me  with  a  bewildered,  half -recognizing 
gaze,  and  the  thought  darted  into  my  mind  that  he 
did  not  mean  to  know  me.  But  it  was  no  time  for 
scruples  or  maiden  shyness.  The  need  was  too  im- 
minent. 

"  Andrew  !"  said  I  ;  "if  ever  you  loved  me  or 
my  mother,  save  me  !" 


454  The  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

"  Vevette  !"  said  Andrew,  still  wonderinr.  "  It 
is  Vevette."  Then  catching  me  in  his  arms  he  left 
me  no  doubt  of  the  state  of  his  heart.  He  never 
asked  me  whether  I  still  loved  him,  and  I  don't 
think  it  ever  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  it. 

"  "Wall  !"  said  a  voice  close  by  ;  "I  should  say, 
Mr.  Corbet,  that  you  had  found  some  one  you  was 
kind  of  glad  to  see." 

"  Glad  is  no  word,"  said  Andrew,  while  I  re- 
leased myself,  covered  with  blushes.  "  But  how 
came  you  here  ?" 

In  a  very  few  words  I  told  him  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. Andrew's  brow  grew  dark,  and  Captain 
Mayhew  expressed  the  wish  that  he  had  that  French- 
man on  board. 

"  Will  you  not  contrive  to  SBVC  me  ?"  I  said,  in 
conclusion.    * '  I  am  a  Protestant — as  much  as  I  ever 
was.     I  cannot  go  to  Canada.     I  only  ask  a  safe 
asylum.     They  said  I  was  a  French  subject  because 
my  father  was  French." 

"  Darn  the  French  !"  said  Captain  Mayhew. 
"  There,  I  won't  swear.  Yes,  we'll  save  you  some- 
how. Never  fear.  But  how  ?" 

He  considered  a  moment,  and  then  his  thin,  clever 
face  broke  into  a  smile,  and  he  turned  to  An- 
drew, 

"  You  say  this  young  lady  was  promised  to  you, 
with  the  consent  of  her  parents  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Andrew.  "  We  might  have 
been  married  before  this  but  for  my  own  hardness 
and  pig-headed  jealousies." 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          455 

"  You  were  not  to  blame,"  said  I.  "  The  fault 
has  been  all  mine. ' ' 

"  Reckon  you'll  have  time  to  settle  that,"  said  the 
captain.  "  Well,  since  all  that  is  so,  and  you  like 
the  young  lady  and  she  likes  you,  why,  it  appears 
to  ine  that  the  best  way  will  be  to  call  the  good 
minister  who  came  over  with  us,  and  let  him  marry 
you  on  the  spot.  Then  the  lady  will  be  the  wife  of 
a  British  subject,  which  will  make  her  one  herself,  I 
take  it  ;  and  if  old  King  Lewy  don't  like  it,  let  him 
come  over  himself  and  see  about  it." 

"  It  would  be  much  the  best  way,  Vevette,"  said 
Andrew,  turning  to  me.  "  It  would  give  me  the 
right  to  protect  you." 

I  faltered  something,  I  know  not  what. 

"  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  we  will  have  a 
wedding  on  the  spot,"  said  the  captain.  "As  to. 
the  banns  and  all  that,  we  can  settle  it  afterward. 
But  we  had  better  be  in  a  hurry,  for  we  are  getting 
into  smooth  water,  and  your  Mother  Mary  will  be  astir 
presently,  making  a  fuss.  Just  call  Mr.  Norton, 
and  tell  him  to  make  haste,  will  you  ?"  he  said  to 
the  steward.  "  Or,  maybe  we  had  better  go  into  my 
cabin.  Mr.  Norton  is  a  regular  Church  of  England 
minister,"  he  explained  to  me  as  he  assisted  me 
down  the  companion-way.  "  He's  going  out  to  see 
his  folks,  but  he  don't  calculate  to  settle."  A 
few  words  put  Mr.  Norton  in  possession  of  the  story. 
The  first  mate  was  called  in  as  an  additional 
witness,  and  in  half  an  hour  I  returned  to  the  cabin 
the  lawful  wife  of  Andrew  Corbet  of  Tre  Madoc. 


456  Tke  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

I  had  not  been  away  an  hour, 'but  how  the  world 
was  changed  to  ine  !" 

"  Where  have  you  beeL,  and  what  kept  you  so 
long  ?"  asked  Mother  Mary  as  I  brought  her  some 
coffee  which  the  steward  had  provided. 

"I  have  been  on  deck  for  air,  and  the  captain 
kept  me  to  answer  some  questions,"  I  answered  ; 
and  then,  to  hide  my  confusion,  I  added,  "  We  are 
in  full  sight  of  land,  reverend  mother.  The  captain 
says  we  shall  be  at  Boston  by  afternoon." 

"  Oh  that  it  were  Quebec  instead  of  that  heretical 
Boston!"  sighed  Mother  Mary.  "Is  the  captain 
quite  obdurate  still  ?" 

"  Yes,  reverend  mother  ;  but  he  says  he  is  sure 
we  shall  receive  every  kindness  from  the  people. 
Will  you  try  to  get  up  ?  The  ship  does  not  roll 
much  now." 

I  assisted  her,  and  my  companions,  who  were 
overjoyed  when  they  heard  we  were  in  sight  of 
land,  though  it  was  a  land  of  heretics.  A  land  of 
cannibals  would  have  been  welcome  to  the  poor 
souls  just  then.  We  were  soon  all  on  deck,  I  keep- 
ing by  Mother  Mary' s  side  as  usual,  for  it  had  been 
settled  that  I  should  say  nothing  till  the  time  came 
for  disembarkation. 

It  came  very  soon.  The  anchor  rattled  down  into 
Boston  harbor  about  three  o'clock.  We  were  at 
once  boarded  by  th*>,  harbor-master  and  another  gen- 
tleman of  goodly  presence,  who,  it  seems,  was  a 
magistrate.  He  looked  with  surprise  at  the  unusual 
passengers,  inci  Captain  Mayhew  explained  to  them 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.         457 

the  state  of  the  case.  The  gentleman,  who  could 
speak  French  fluently,  turned  to  Mother  Mary,  and 
with  much  politeness  assured  her  of  every  consid- 
eration. There  was  a  French  ship  in  the  bay,  which 
would  doubtless  take  her  and  her  companions  to 
their  destination.  Meantime  a  house  on  shore 
should  be  placed  at  her  disposal  and  furnished  with 
every  comfort. 

Madame,  hearing  of  the  French  ship,  declined  to 
go  on  shore,  saying  that  she  should  prefer  going  at 
once  to  the  ship,  whereat  three  or  four  of  the  girls 
burst  out  crying  with  disappointment.  Mr.  FoLsom 
suggested  that  the  ship  would  not  be  prepared  for 
our  reception,  and  that  at  least  they  must  give  the 
captain  notice  ;  but  Mother  Mary  was  obstinate. 
She  would  remain  where  she  was  rather  than  set 
foot  on  heretic  ground.  This,  however,  was  shown 
to  be  impossible,  and  at  last  she  consented  to  go  on 
shore,  provided  she  could  have  a  house  to  herself, 
which  Mr.  Folsom  promised.  Then,  turning  to  An- 
drew, he  asked  if  he  were  ready  to  accompany  him. 

"  I  am  quite  ready  if  my  wife  is,"  replied  An- 
drew, and  at  a  signal  from  him  I  left  Mother  Mary's 
side  and  went  to  him,  placing  my  arm  within  his. 
There  was  an  exclamation  of  horror  from  the  nuns. 

u  Vevette,  what  does  this  mean  ?"  exclaimed 
Mother  Mary.  "Wicked,  shameless  girl,  what  are 
you  doing  ?" 

"  Good  words,  madame,"  said  Andrew  in  French. 
"  This  lady  was  long  ago  betrothed  to  me  by  the 
consent  of  all  our  parents.  We  have  been  sepa- 


45 S  The.  Chevaliers  Daughter. 

rated  a  long  time  by  the  force  of  circumstances  ; 
but  having  come  together  again  we  resolved  to 
put  it  out  of  any  human  power  to  separate  us, 
and  so  we  were  married  this  morning  by  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Norton,  a  Church  of  England  minister, 
who  is  on  board,  as  Captain  Mayhew  can  certify." 

The  captain  bowed.  "  Oh,  yes,  he  is  a  regular 
minister, ' '  said  he.  ' '  I  know  him  and  all  his  folks. 
It  is  all  right,  Mr.  Folsom.  Tell  the  lady  so." 

The  lady  was  told  so,  but  she  refused  to  listen. 
With  her  most  majestic  air  she  commanded  me  to 
return  to  her  side. 

"  No,  madame,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  thank  you  for 
all  your  kindness,  but  my  place  is  with  my  hus- 
band." 

"  Wretched,  deluded  child  !  Know  you  not  that  a 
marriage  by  a  heretic  minister  is  no  marriage,  and 
is  in  itself  a  crime  ?" 

"  In  France,  madame,  no  doubt  ;  bat  we  are  not 
in  France.  This  is  an  English  colony,  and  governed 
by  English  laws." 

u  But  a  heretic,"  said  Mother  Mary  ;  "a  blas- 
phemer of  our  holy  religion  !" 

"  A  heretic  according  to  your  thinking,  but  no 
blasphemer,  madame,"  said  Andrew.  "  My  wife 
is  herself  a  Protestant,  as  her  fathers  have  been  be- 
fore her." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  I ;  "  I  have  been  deluded  for  a 
time  ;  but  I  have  seen  my  error.  I  am  of  the 
Reformed,  heart  and  soul ;  or  rather,"  remembering 
our  old  family  boast,  "  I  am  a  Waldensian — of  that 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          459 

people  who  never  corrupted  the  faith,  and  so  needed 
no  reformation." 

"  And  all  this  time  you  have  been  pretending  to 
he  a  good  Catholic,"  said  Mother  Mary.  "  What  a 
wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  have  I  been  entertaining 
among  my  lambs  !" 

"No,  madame,"  I  answered  ;  "I  confess  that 
my  judgment  was  warped  for  a  time  by  passion  and 
self-interest,  and  the  stress  of  a  great  disappoint- 
ment, and  in  that  frame  I  made  a  profession  of 
your  religion.  But  it  is  long  since  my  faith  began 
to  waver,  and  since  I  have  been  on  shipboard  it 
hath  been  confirmed  in  the  old  way  by  thought, 
prayer,  and  study  of  the  "Word  of  God.  I  was  no 
willing  emigrant,  but  was  betrayed  into  my  present 
position  by  the  treachery  of  those  who  professed,  for 
motives  of  gain,  to  be  my  friends.  I  think  it  neither 
wrong  nor  shame  to  leave  that  position  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  man  to  whom  my  father  himself  gave 
me." 

Mother  Mary  was  about  to  reply,  when,  glancing 
around,  she  saw  all  the  girls  listening  with  open 
mouth  and  exchanging  significant  glances  with  one 
another.  So  she  cut  the  matter  short. 

"It  is  well, ' '  said  she  ;  ' '  I  wash  my  hands  of 
you.  Child  of  wicked  parents,  you  have  followed 
in  their  steps  !  Go,  then,  with  your  paramour,  and 
remember  that  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  dogs  your 
steps  !  As  to  me  and  mine,  we  will  not  set  foot  on 
this  wicked  shore.  I  demand  to  be  taken  to  the 


460  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

French  ship  immediately,  without  a  moment's 
delay." 

"Madame,"  said  Andrew,  bowing,  "I  trust  I 
shall  not  forget  that  I  am  a  gentleman,  and  that  1 
am  speaking  to  a  woman  who  has  been  kind  to  my 
wife,  and  who  is  old  enough  to  be  my  mother."  ] 
saw  Mother  Mary  wince  a  little  at  this.  "  Come, 
Yevette,  Mr.  Folsom's  boat  waits  for  us." 

I  would  have  taken  a  kind  leave  of  my  compan- 
ions, but  Mother  Mary  would  not  allow  it,  fearing,  I 
suppose,  that  marriage  might  be  catching.  We  de- 
scended into  Mr.  Folsom's  boat,  and  were  soon  at 
the  shore.  "We  walked  up  through  the  green  lane — 
oh,  how  delicious  seemed  the  firm  ground  and  the 
grass  to  my  feet  ! — till  we  came  to  Mr.  Folsom's 
house,  which  was  not  the  rude  erection  I  expected 
to  see,  but  a  handsome  square  mansion,  partly  of 
stone,  and  with  a  pretty  garden  beside  it.  I  am  told 
that  Boston  hath  grown  to  be  quite  a  fine  city.  It 
was  even  then  a  pretty  town,  with  neat  houses  and 
some  good  shops  and  a  very  decent  church,  which 
they  called  a  meeting-house,  for  the  most  part.  For 
they  say  that  the  name  church  belongs  to  the  faith- 
ful who  assemble  there,  and  not  to  the  place.  'Tis  a 
matter  of  small  moment — just  one  of  those  inconse- 
quent things  which  people  hold  to  with  the  most 
persistence.  In  my  grandmother's  time  Archbishop 
Laud  would  have  deposed  a  worthy  minister  be- 
cause he  did  not  believe  in  St.  George.  However, 
I  shall  never  get  to  Mr.  Folsom's  house  at  this  rate. 

Mistress  Folsom   came  to  the  door  to  meet  us, 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          461 

having  been  advertised  by  a  special  messenger.  She 
was  a  comely  lady,  richly  but  plainly  dressed  in  a 
somewhat  bygone  i'ashion.  Her  two  pretty  daugh- 
ters stood  behind  her,  as  sweet  and  prim  as  two  pink 
daisies.  She  made  me  welcome  with  a  motherly 
kiss,  and  listened  with  great  amaze  and  interest 
while  my  husband  made  her  acquainted  with  the 
outline  of  our  history. 

"  'Tis  like  something  in  a  romance,"  said  she. 
"  But  you  must  be  very  weary,  and  hungry  too. 
We  will  have  supper  ready  directly.  Sweetheart, 
would  you  not  like  to  change  your  dress  ?" 

I  explained  to  her  that  I  had  no  changes,  all  my 
luggage  having  been  lost  in  the  wreck,  except  my 
basket,  which  Sister  St.  Stanislaus  had  given  rne,  and 
which  I  had  clung  to  through  all.  Without  more 
ado  she  carried  me  to  a  plain  but  pretty  and  com- 
fortable chamber,  and  sent  her  two  daughters  hither 
and  thither  for  clean  linen,  a  gown,  and  other  nec- 
essaries. Then  they  left  me  to  myself  ;  but  pres- 
ently a  black  wench  came  up  with  a  great  can  of 
hot  water  and  an  armful  of  towels.  I  do  not  re- 
member in  my  life  any  bodily  sensation  more  deli- 
cious than  that  clean,  well-laundered  linen. 

When  I  was  dressed  I  took  up  a  Bible  which  lay 
upon  my  toilette -table  and  read  the  one  hundred 
and  third  Psalm,  and  then  said  my  prayers,  and 
having  thus  a  little  composed  myself  I  went  down 
stairs.  A  most  bountiful  supper  was  provided  for 
us,  and  we  sat  down,  waited  upon  by  a  black  ser- 
vant. I  had  no  notion  of  so  much  style  and  cere- 


462  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

mony  in  this  remote  corner  of  the  world  ;  but  1 
soon  found  that  there  were  other  colonists  who  kept 
up  much  more  state  than  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Folsom. 
After  supper  Andrew  and  I  were  left  to  ourselves 
in  the  parlor,  and  it  may  be  guessed  we  did  not 
want  subjects  for  talk.  I  told  him  my  wThole  story, 
concealing  nothing. 

"  You  see  what  sort  of  wife  you  have  taken  in 
your  haste,"  said  I,  in  conclusion.  "  All  these 
things  are  much  worse  than  aiding  and  abetting 
poor  Betty,  even  if  I  had  done  so,  which  I  never 
did." 

"  Ah,  Yevette  !  don't  taunt  me  with  my  folly 
and  obstinacy,"  said  Andrew,  covering  his  face. 
"  It  was  just  that  which  threw  you  into  the  hands 
of  your  enemies. " 

' '  My  enemies  would  have  had  no  power  if  I  had 
but  kept  them  at  arm's  length,"  said  I.  "It  was 
not  your  fault  that  I  did  not  accept  Theo's  invita- 
tion instead  of  going  with  Madame  de  Fayrolles  ; 
but  the  truth  was  that,  when  I  heard  you  were  going 
to  be  married  to  the  Jamaica  lady,  I  thought  only 
of  getting  out  of  England  before  you  came  into  it." 

"So  it  was  that  piece  of  folly  that  drove  you 
away,"  said  Andrew.  "I  wish  you  could  see  the 
Jamaica  lady,  Vevette.  She  was  indeed  very  kind 
to  me  when  I  lay  ill  at  her  father's  house  ;  but  she 
is  fifty  years  old  at  least,  and  about  as  handsome  as 
old  Deborah.  Dear  soul  !  she  gave  me  a  string  of 
beautiful  pearls  for  you,  and  when  I  heard  you 
were  married  I  threw  them  into  the  sea." 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          463 

<(  That  was  very  wasteful  ;  you  might  have  given 
them  to  the  poor,"  I  returned.  "  But  who  told 
you  I  was  married  ?" 

11  Nobody  said  you  were  actually  married;  but 
when  I  went  to  Stantoun  Court,  to  obtain  news  of 
you  on  my  return,  I  found  my  lord  fuming  over  a 
letter  he  had  just  received,  saying  that  you  were  to 
be  married  on  the  morrow  to  some  Frenchman — I 
don't  remember  his  name — of  great  wealth  and  con- 
sequence." 

"  Monsieur  de  Luynes,"  said  I.  "  They  did  try 
to  make  me  marry  him  afterward,  but  I  had  not 
heard  of  him  at  that  time.  He  was  a  good  old  man, 
and  very  kind  to  me. ' ' 

"  That  was  the  name, "  continued  Andrew.  ' '  My 
lord  swore  you  should  not  touch  a  penny  till  you 
were  twenty-one,  whatever  happened.  But  how 
came  you  to  write  yourself  that  you  were  going  to 
be  married  ?" 

"  I  did  not,"  I  answered. 

"  It  was  a  forgery  then.  There  was  a  note  in 
your  handwriting,  and  signed  with  your  name.  I 
thought  the  hand  looked  a  little  Frenchified,  but  the 
signature  was  yours  to  a  hair.  Only  for  that  I 
should  have  gone  to  Paris  to  find  you  ;  but  I 
thought  if  you  were  well  married,  and  with  your 
own  consent,  I  would  not  be  a  makebate  between 
you  and  your  husband.  So  I  even  turned  the  old 
place  over  to  Margaret  and  her  husband  to  care  for, 
gathered  together  my  prize-money,  and  what  else  I 
could,  and  came  hither  intending  to  turn  settler.  I 


464  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

was  knocked  down  and  hurt  in  the  storm,  which 
was  the  reason  I  did  not  see  you  upon  your  coining 
aboard.  I  was  thinking  011  you  when  you  came  and 
spoke  to  me,  and  for  a  moment  I  thought  it  was 
your  ghost." 

"  Ghosts  don't  come  at  that  time  of  day,"  said 
I.  "  And  so  Margaret  is  married  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  well  married  as  I  could  desire — to  Mr. 
Trevathy,  son  of  our  good  old  knight.  'Tis  an 
excellent  marriage  in  every  way." 

"  And  your  mother  ?" 

"  My  mother  lives  with  Margaret,  and  so  does 
Rosamond  for  the  present.  Betty  and  her  husband 
are  in  London,  where  he  had  some  small  office." 

Our  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  return 
of  Mr.  Folsom. 

"  And  do  you  know  what  has  kept  me  abroad  so 
late  ?"  said  he,  seeming  much  amused.  "  Even 
taking  order  for  the  accommodation  of  your  French 
madame  and  her  flock  of  lambs.  I  have  them  all 
safely  and  comfortably  housed  in  the  new  tavern ; 
and  have  sent  for  a  French  woman  who  can  speak 
English  to  interpret  for  them." 

"What!  did  she  come  on  shore  after  all?"  I 
asked. 

"  She  had  no  choice.  The  captain  of  the  French 
ship  positively  refused  to  receive  her  till  his  ship 
should  be  made  ready  for  sea.  So,  as  she  could  not 
well  sleep  in  an  open  boat,  she  was  at  length  prevail- 
ed upon  to  hear  reason.  1  have  been  half  over  the 
town  gathering  beds  and  other  needful  comforts  for 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          465 

them,  and  I  have  left  the  poor  things  at  last  happy 
over  a  hot  supper." 

' '  I  am  glad  they  are  comfortable.  They  have 
had  a  hard  time  of  it.  I  don't  know  how  they  will 
bear  to  go  to  sea  again." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


CONCLUSION. 


HE  next  day  I  went  with  Mrs.  Folsom  to 
carry  some  additional  comforts,  in  the 
shape  of  linen  and  so  on,  to  my  old  com- 
panions. I  found  them  all  comfortably 
housed  in  a  new  tavern,  which,  though  not  quite 
finished,  was  clean  and  cheerful.  Mother  Mary 
would  not  see  us  at  all,  but  Sister  Margaret  came 
to  us,  and  was  very  grateful  for  what  we  brought. 

"  Every  one  has  been  very  good,"  said  she.  "  I 
did  not  know  that  heretics  could  be  so  land.  They 
used  to  tell  us  that  the  English  settlers  mur- 
dered every  Catholic,  and  especially  every  nun  that 
fell  into  their  hands  ;  but  the  people  here  have 
treated  us  like  true  Christians.  They  have  even 
sent  us  an  interpreter.  They  say  the  French  vessel 
will  set  sail  in  about  a  week.  Oh,  Vevette,  how 
we  shall  mis's  you  !" 

"  Dear  sister,  I  wish  I  could  help  take  care  of 
you  ;  but  you  know  it  is  impossible,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  but — "  in  a  frightened  whisper. 
11  Ah,  Vevette,  take  good  care  of  yourself.  The 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          467 

mother  says  the  French  king  will  have  you  back  if 
he  goes  to  war  for  you." 

"  I  am  not  alarmed,"  I  answered.  "  The  French 
king  has  his  hands  too  full  to  care  or  concern  him- 
self for  such  an  insignificant  person  as  I  am.  But 
who  is  that  ?"  I  added,  starting  as  a  plainly  dressed 
woman  looked  into  the  room  and  withdrew  again. 

"  That  is  our  interpreter,"  answered  Sister  Mar- 
garet. "  She  is  a  heretic — more  is  the  pity — but 
she  is  very  good  and  useful. ' ' 

"  I  beseech  you,  sister,  make  some  excuse  to 
call  her  hither,"  said  I,  all  of  a  tremble.  "  I  am 
sure  I  know  her." 

The  sister  called  her,  and  held  her  a  moment  in 
some  conversation  while  1  looked  at  her.  !No,  I 
was  not  mistaken. 

"Lucille!"  said  I. 

She  turned,  looked  at  me  a  moment  with  wide 
eyes  of  wonder,  and  then  dropped  in  a  dead  faint  at 
my  feet.  I  had  her  in  my  arms  in  a  moment. 

"It  is  my  foster-sister,"  said  I  to  Mrs.  Folsom. 
I  thought  she  was  dead." 

I  almost  thought  so  again  before  we  brought  her 
to  ;  but  she  revived  at  last,  and  knew  me.  Poor 
thing,  she  was  sadly  changed.  Her  black  hair  was 
quite  gray,  and  her  face  looked  fifty  years  old.  She 
went  home  with  us,  and  after  a  while  was  composed 
enough  to  tell  us  her  story.  She  said  she  had  be 
come  horribly  sick  of  the  convent  life,  and  having 
fallen  into  disgrace  with  her  Superior  she  deter- 
mined to  make  her  escape.  For  this  purpose  she 


468  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

feigned  stupidity  almost  to  idiocy,  and  having  thus 
thrown  her  watchers  off  their  guard  she  made  her 
escape  ;  putting  on  some  clothes  she  found  thrown 
aside,  and  disposing  of  her  own  garments  in  the 
way  they  were  found.  She  had  made  her  way  by 
one  means  and  another  to  Dieppe,  where  she  fell  in 
with  a  captain's  wife,  who  was  in  sore  straits  for 
want  of  a  servant.  With  her  she  took  service,  and 
came  to  the  new  settlements,  where  she  had  lived 
ever  since.  With  what  joy  she  received  the  news 
of  her  parents'  welfare  I  leave  to  be  guessed. 

I  have  little  more  to  tell  in  order  to  complete  this 
long  history.  Mother  Mary  took  her  departure 
after  a  fortnight's  delay,  during  which  she  received 
a  great  deal  of  kindness  from  the  good  people,  and 
had  more  than  one  sharp  theological  duel.  She  did 
not,  however,  carry  away  all  her  flock.  Louisonne 
and  two  other  girls  were  missing  at  the  hour  of  de 
parture,  and  could  nowhere  be  found,  and  she  was 
forced  to  embark  without  them.  The  next  day  they 
crept  out  of  their  concealment,  a  good  deal  scared 
and  ashamed.  They  were  received  with  kindness, 
however,  and  taken  to  service  in  decent  families, 
and  all  three  turned  out  very  well. 

The  next  ship  to  England  carried  news  of  us  to 
our  friends,  but  we  ourselves  remained  in  New 
England.  Andrew  had  a  mind  to  see  the  country 
now  he  had  come  thither,  and  he  thought,  more- 
over, that  it  would  be  as  safe  for  me  to  remain  at  a 
good  distance  till  the  storm,  if  storm  there  were, 
should  blow  over.  The  tale  could  not  fail  to  reach 


The  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          469 

the  tars  of  King  Louis  and  his  ministers,  and  as  our 
own  King  Charles  was  (I  say  it  to  our  shame)  abso- 
lutely under  his  thumb,  we  knew  not  what  demands 
might  be  made.  So  after  travelling  about  a  while 
we  bought  a  house  and  farm  not  very  far  from 
Hampton.  Here  we  lived  for  six  years,  very  happy 
and  content ;  and  here  one  day  I  had  a  great 
fright. 

Sitting  in  my  parlor  with  my  youngest  babe  in 
my  arms,  Lucille,  who  made  it  her  home  with  us, 
came  in  to  tell  me  that  three  or  four  Indians  were 
asking  for  food.  This  was  no  uncommon  occur- 
rence, and  I  bade  her  supply  their  wants  and  set 
them  down  to  eat ;  but  seeing  that  she  was  disturbed 
(for  she  had  never  overcome  her  fear  of  the  natives) 
I  went  to  attend  to  them  myself.  I  have  a  tolerably 
quick  eye  and  a  quick  ear  for  languages,  and  I  dis- 
covered at  once  that  these  were  none  of  our  ordinary 
peaceable  Neponsets,  with  whom  we  were  on  the 
best  of  terms,  but  strangers.  Moreover,  I  was  sure 
that  one  of  them  was  a  white  man.  I  supplied  them 
with  food,  and  then,  slipping  into  the  next  room, 
where  I  could  see  all  their  faces  in  a  mirror  with- 
out being  myself  seen,  I  saw  the  supposed  white 
man  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  in  the  action 
I  recognized  my  old  confessor,  Father  Martien. 

My  blood  ran  cold  for  a  moment.  It  was  well 
known  that  the  Jesuits  of  Canada  constantly  set  on 
their  Indian  allies  to  rob,  burn,  and  murder  all 
along  our  settlements  ;  but  it  was  seldom  that  they 
came  as  far  as  our  place.  No  doubt  these  were 


470  The  Chevalier's  Daughter. 

spies  sent  out  to  see  the  nakedness  of  the  land. 
Woe  to  me  if  I  fell  into  their  hands. 

I  stepped  to  the  door  and  sent  a  black  hoy  for  my 
husband,  who  was  not  far  away.  He  came,  and  I 
told  him  my  convictions. 

"  Tut  !"  said  he  ;  "I  dare  say  they  are  harmless 
enough." 

"  Look  and  listen  for  yourself,"  said  I. 

He  did  so,  and  was  obliged  to  confess  that  there 
was  cause  for  my  alarm.  They  finished  their  meal, 
and  went  away  peaceably  enough,  but  I  shall  never 
forget  the  look  Father  Martien  bestowed  on  me  in 
parting.  They  were  no  sooner  gone  than  my  hus- 
band sent  to  rouse  the  neighbors,  and  the  little 
settlement  was  put  into  a  state  of  defence,  and  we 
kept  a  strict  watch,  which  was  all  we  could  do  that 
night.  The  next  morning  scouts  were  sent  out,  and 
it  was  found  that  quite  a  large  war  party  had  been 
in  the  neighborhood,  but  had  decamped,  probably 
in  consequence  of  seeing  us  so  well  prepared  for 
them.  I  have  heard  nothing  of  Father  Martien 
since,  though  I  am  sure  I  had  a  glimpse  of  him  once 
in  London. 

We  remained  in  New  England  for  six  years,  and 
then  returned  to  Cornwall.  My  husband's  mother 
was  growing  infirm,  and  longed  to  see  her  son  and 
his  children.  Mr.  Treverthy's  brother  was  dead, 
and  it  became  needful  for  him  to  live  upon  his  own 
estate.  So  we  sold  our  farm  for  a  good  price,  and 
went  back  to  our  old  home,  a  sober  married  couple 
with  three  promising  children.  My  aunt  Amy  re- 


The  Chevaliers  Daughter.          471 

ceived  me  with  open  arms,  and  I  never  had  any 
trouble  with  her,  save  to  keep  her  from  quite  spoil- 
ing my  children1  s  tempers  with  indulgence  and  their 
digestion  with  gingerbread.  "We  had  the  happiness 
of  restoring  Lucille  to  her  parents,  who  received  her 
like  one  returned  from  the  grave.  David  had- 
already  settled  in  Penzance  as  a  carpenter,  and 
taken  a  modest  Cornish  maid  to  wife.  He  is  an  old 
man  now,  quite  rich,  and  a  person  of  great  impor- 
tance in  the  town  ;  but  wealth  has  not  spoiled  him 
in  the  least.  Lucille  hath  never  married,  and  still 
lives  with  me,  a  most  valued  helper  and  friend. 
Jeanne  and  Simon  survived  to  a  good  old  age. 

Of  poor  Betty,  as  I  can  say  no  good  I  will  say  noth- 
ing. My  uncle  Charles  married  a  rich  old  woman 
from  the  city — a  widow — who  has  led  him  a  sad  life, 
and  seems  likely  to  outlive  him  after  all.  I  saw  her 
once,  and  thought  if  there  were  anything  in  the 
doctrine  of  penance  her  husband  was  in  a  fair  way 
to  expiate  all  his  offences.  Her  name  was  Felicia, 
but  the  felicity  was  all  in  the  name.  She  would 
neither  be  happy  herself  nor  let  any  one  else  be  so, 
if  she  could  help  it. 

I  never  saw  Monsieur  de  Fayrolles  again.  He 
perished  in  a  duel,  under  very  disgraceful  circum- 
stances, some  years  after  I  left  him,  and  there  was 
no  one  remaining  to  bear  that  dishonored  name. 
His  wife,  after  leading  a  very  gay  life  for  a  time, 
suddenly  turned  devotee,  retired  to  a  convent,  and 
gave  all  her  jewels  to  the  shrine  of  Our  Lady  of  some- 
thing or  other — whatever  image  was  most  in  fashion 


472  The  Chevalier  s  Daughter. 

at  the  time.  I  suppose  the  pearl  necklace  my  lady 
gave  me  was  among  them.  Susanne  came  to  Lon- 
don, set  up  as  a  milliner  and  hair-dresser,  and  did 
very  well.  I  never  forgot  her  kindness  to  me,  and 
was  glad  to  be  able  to  return  it. 

Lord  and  Lady  Stantoun  lived  to  a  good  old  age. 
Lewis  caused  them  a  good  deal  of  uneasiness  for  a 
time  by  running  rather  wild,  and  absolutely  refus- 
ing to  marry  in  his  father' s  life-time.  I  believe  my 
lord  would  have  been  very  glad  if  his  son  had  mar- 
ried his  ward  when  he  wished  it — not  that  I  ever 
wanted  him.  However,  Lewis  did  take  a  wife  at 
last,  and  that  a  wife  of  the  Religion — a  pretty,  gentle, 
scared  little  Proven^ale — who  I  fear  he  will  not  keep 
very  long.  Theo  and  her  husband  have  had  little 
trouble  except  that  she  has  no  cliildren.  She  is  a 
blessing  to  every  one  who  comes  in  contact  with 
her,  as  Mrs.  Barnard  is  the  reverse.  Margaret  hath 
at  this  moment  twenty  children  and  grandchildren, 
and  is  as  proud  of  the  last  as  if  it  had  been  the  first. 
Rosamond  divides  her  time  among  us,  happy  and 
making  happy  wherever  she  goes. 

And  now  I  bring  this  long  memoir  of  my  young 
days  to  a  close.  I  have  written  it  at  the  instance  of 
my  husband  and  for  the  benefit  of  rny  children,  in 
accordance  with  a  kind  of  custom  which  hath  ob- 
tained in  our  family  for  several  generations.  As  to 
the  moral,  if  any  be  needed,  it  may  be  read  in  two 
or  three  places  of  Holy  Scripture,  which  I  will  copy 
here. 


Tke  Chevalier  s  Daughter.          473 

"  A  double-minded  man  is  unstable  in  all  his 
ways." — St.  James  1  :  8. 

"  If  any  man  love  the  world,   the  love  of  the 
Father  is  not  in  him." — I.  St.  John  2  :  15. 

"  Ye   cannot  serve   God  and    mammon." — St 
Matt.  6  :  21. 

AGNES  GENEVIEVE  CORBET  nee  D'ANTIN. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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